


Becoming Miss Fisher - An origin story

by flashofthefuse



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phryne is a young girl in Paris, meeting friends and throwing herself into the excitement of the end of the war. Along the way she gets involved in an ill-fated affair and makes some good friends, the experience helping to shape her into the woman she will become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story feels very different to me from anything I've written yet. It's been difficult at times and has explored some themes I don't usually like to attempt. It may not be everyone's cup of tea. 
> 
> It is also the first story I wrote from start to finish without posting anything along the way. There's nothing graphic in the early chapters. I'll issue further warnings before anything along those lines occurs.
> 
> I plan to post one or two chapters at a time so that I can clean them up and edit as I go. Here are the first two chapters. I hope I've done this story justice and that you like it. As always, comments and construction criticism are welcome.

It was her first time in Café Anatole after hours. In fact, it was her first time through the doors. She had often passed by, smelling the delicious aromas wafting out onto the sidewalk and gazing through the windows at the wealthy patrons enjoying their lunch, but she could never afford the prices.

She’d heard glorious stories of the bohemian crowds, the artist, poets and free thinkers and, even more than she desired a taste of the food, she longed to join them when they gathered in the café at night.

She was stranded in France after her ambulance unit disbanded and hadn’t yet been able to reach her family to have them send her money. She wasn’t really in any hurry, they’d only expect her to come home and she wasn’t ready to do that. It was a heady time and she was enjoying her freedom after the horrors of watching men bleed to death in her arms. So many men, so very young. She still saw their faces all around her.

She wanted to dance and drink champagne and forget. There was nothing awaiting her back home.

She’d met Vianne while modeling for risqué photographs for a local _‘artiste._ ’ She had no qualms about the nudity. She’d seen far too many bodies broken and burnt. The human form was beautiful and strong, even when bent or scarred. She was whole and complete. She didn’t mind sharing that with the world.

The photographer, however, was a lecherous man without an artistic bone in his body. His photos were raunchy and would definitely violate most decency laws, but she needed the money. She agreed to pose as long as her face wasn’t visible or identifiable. She had standards after all, and the photographer didn’t care, the kind of men that bought his photos weren’t looking at faces.

Vianne posed for the man too. She was a proper model, having sat for true artists, but slummed on occasion. The war had brought hard times for all.

Vianne had taken a liking to Phryne, providing her a place to stay, and offering to introduce her at the café in hopes of helping her find better opportunities. “You are too beautiful to be wasted on such a talentless hack,” she’d said.

So it was that Phryne had finally found herself on the other side of those magical doors, and it was all she had imagined and more. Vianne forged their way through the crowd, being stopped constantly along the way by grasping hands and cheek kissing friends. Phryne followed in her wake, her head on a swivel, trying to take in as much as she could in case this was her only moment inside these four walls.

The room was filled with smoke, music and laughter. Wine flowed freely. Anatole, the café’s owner and namesake, was generous with the money he earned during the day. Having dabbled, and failed, as a painter, he’d found success in the hospitality industry. He felt a kinship with the starving artists of Paris and did what he could to support them. The notoriety these gatherings brought to his establishment was good for business as well.

“One day you will be world renowned,” he would say to the painters, sculptors and poets as he moved among them, serving bottomless bowls of onion soup and crusty baguettes. “Don’t forget me when you find your wealthy patrons. Be sure to recommend my humble establishment.”

Vianne linked her arm through Phryne’s and pulled her forward.

“There he is,” she said, “the man I want you to meet, Pierre Sarcelle. I’ve told him all about you and he is most excited to make your acquaintance. Pierre is the most talented man I have ever sat for, and he is seeking a new muse.”

Phryne followed her friend’s gaze to a man that seemed to embody the very image of a French artist. He was short and broad and wore a long, Ulster coat that reached to his ankles. A dark beret sat jauntily atop his wavy, shoulder length hair and he had a length of red scarf tied loosely around his open collar.

The woman at his side was radiant. Regal, but homey in appearance. Soft, and friendly looking, with a welcoming smile and joyful eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely in a bun. A few locks, having escaped their binding, curled pleasingly along her cheek.

The crowds parting reverently for the couple. They were clearly the elder statesmen in the room, holding court, but exhibiting no artificial airs. They fairly glowed, and Phryne smiled just to look at them, then gasped as her eyes were drawn to the man they had stopped to observe.

“Who is that?” she asked Vianne breathlessly. The man was tall, dark and slim, wearing well-fitted trousers and flowing shirtsleeves with a black waistcoat. His gleaming hair fell to the nape of his neck and was slicked back off his broad forehead revealing an angular face and sharp, straight nose.

It wasn’t his features that drew Phryne’s eye, it was his entire manner. He seemed to exude confidence and raw sexuality, even from across the room. He stood in front of a large canvas, his arms waving dramatically as the paint flew onto the canvas before him and an avant-garde image began to emerge.

“Ah,” Vianne said, a bemused smile on her face as she watched her young friend. “That is René Dubois. He is rather divine, is he not?”

“He knows how to attract a crowd,” Phryne said nonchalantly, but her eyes had not left the man.

“Yes, René likes an audience,” Vianne said. She looked Phryne up and down, “and he will like you, but, I must warn you, mon amie, he is a man to be careful of. He is, how you say? A bit of a cad. Oui?”

“That sounds intriguing,” Phryne responded, her eyebrow raising lasciviously.

“Intriguing, perhaps,” Vianne agreed, “but not one in which to trust your heart. René, I’m afraid, will disappoint in love.”

“Who said anything about love?” Phryne replied, a sly grin spreading across her face.

Vianne laughed, the sound as light and clear as a silver bell, and threw an arm around Phryne’s shoulder. “You are a rare one Mademoiselle Phryne Fisher. I knew there was a reason we got on so well. Come. Here is Pierre.”


	2. Chapter 2

Phryne lay on the fur throw, the pale blue peignoir falling open and pooling around her. One arm lay behind her head and the other behind her back. She arched back against the red velvet chaise, her body twisted slightly, so that one pert nipple reached toward the ceiling, her torso stretched to reveal her smooth, flat stomach and create a pleasing line to the triangular thatch of dark hair between her thighs. One knee bent back underneath the other as she reclined in restful repose.

“Shake your hair out ever so gently, then rest your head back, raise your chin and close your eyes. S’il vous plaît,” he requested.

She did as she was bid. “Is this all right Monsieur Sarcelle?”

“Pierre,” he corrected amiably, “we will be here together for quite some time, Mademoiselle Phryne. We must be friends!”

“Of course,” she said smiling and then resuming the pose. It was surprisingly comfortable and not at all hard to hold. 

“You are, urm, content?” he asked. “The room, I know, is chilly.” He’d apologized several times already, but Phryne understood that funds were low and heating fuel dear.

“I am fine, Monsieur. Pierre,” she corrected herself at his admonishing glance. “The throw is cozy.”

She’d been sitting for Pierre Sarcelle only two days, but already she’d grown incredibly fond of the man. He was kind and gentle and so concerned with her comfort. The first day they’d spent more than an hour just talking. 

He’d asked questions about her home, and when she planned to return to it. She found that difficult to answer. She wasn’t sure where exactly her home was. Not England, where her parents had settled. She’d gone to war to flee from that place. And not Australia. Not since Janey had Australia felt like home. 

Madame Sarcelle had joined them and Phryne enjoyed observing the couple together. They shared such an open affection. Veronique displayed no jealousy at the idea that a young woman would be spending hours alone with her husband, and in the nude, if the paintings lining the small room were any indication.

Veronique fussed over Sarcelle in a way Phryne found endearing, but slightly obsequious. If he hadn’t responded in such an appreciative manner to her attentions, it would have turned Phryne’s stomach. When his wife offered tea, he insisted she sit and join them while he poured. They were charming and sweet and kind. Phryne felt very welcome in their home and began to look forward to the sittings.

Pierre paid her generously and told her he thought he could paint her many times over, and would happily recommend her to other artists when he could no longer use her. She had found a good friend in Vianne, who said she could stay as long as she wished, and was happy to take her along on many exciting, adventurous evenings. Phryne was young and free and having the time of her life. She thought she could stay in Paris indefinitely. Maybe even, make it her new home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne is having a passionate affair with the painter René Dubois. He begins to show his true colors, causing her to reflect on the beginning of the affair and wonder if it's time to move on.
> 
> This chapter contains mature subject matter.

“Where were you?”

She shut the door behind her and turned slowly, looking René over carefully. He sat at the table, his back to her. Something about his tone had made her hair stand on end. There was nothing overtly concerning in it. On the surface, it sounded perfectly congenial and mildly curious, but underneath there was something more, something that tugged alarmingly at her. She brushed it aside, and calmly removed her hat, setting it on the table beside the door. Suddenly someone caught her around her waist and lifted her from the ground, spinning her around.

“Ah, it is the lovely Mademoiselle Phryne,” Henri boomed, his one good arm encircling her and holding her firmly as they spun. Henri was a bear of a man, always happy, always laughing. Phryne had seen many men lose a limb to a well placed bullet, hidden mine or infection, and each man handled it differently. Henri had adapted remarkably well and seemed to take no more notice of his missing forearm than he might a paper cut. She had noticed though, that he didn’t like to talk about the circumstances behind its loss and brushed curious questions aside with a joke.

When he’d returned home and could no longer work at his job in the automobile factories, Anatole hired him in the café as a dishwasher. He managed incredibly well, being surprisingly agile with one right hand and a left arm that ended just below the elbow. He’d become so much more than a dishwasher at the café, doing whatever work needed to be done and often stepping out from the back room to help with greeting guests and serving when the café was busy. He lived in a room above and was a nearly constant presence, joking that he was Anatole’s ‘right-hand man.’ He was especially popular with the evening crowds. Women flocked to him, drawn by his mirthful spirit and rugged good looks.

He spun Phryne in circles until she laughed out loud with glee.

“Must you do that!?” René complained. “That obnoxious braying! It is unseemly for a woman to be so undisciplined!”

Henri set Phryne down, making a face in silent commiseration and whispered, “rabat-joie.”

Phryne giggled quietly.

“Come, join us in a drink, mon chou,” Henri said going to find another glass for her. A nearly empty bottle of wine sat on the table, another empty bottle lay by the sink. Phryne smiled and approached the table, but before Henri could pour her a glass, René snatched up the bottle, emptying it into his own glass, upending it completely as if to make a point.

“She is too late,” he said, a slightly bitter smile stretching his thin lips taut.

“Tsk tsk,” Henri scolded, laughing, “you are a scoundrel, mon ami, and far from the gentleman this lovely girl deserves. If I could Mademoiselle, I would sweep you away in one of those sleek automobiles we both so admire.”

“Do you miss working on automobiles Henri?” she asked him, determined to ignore René.

“Oui, but I am still able to tinker,” he said. “Friends find it very convenient to have someone that can help them with the occasional engine trouble. But, it is rare that I get my hands on the caliber of motor car I once had the pleasure of helping to build.”

“The Hispano is a remarkable machine,” Phryne agreed.

“What would you know about automobiles?” René scoffed, somewhat playfully, but there was a bitterness behind his words that Phryne didn’t miss.

“A damn sight more than you, I imagine,” she shot back. While he’d sat out the war in Paris, a childhood illness rendering his lungs too weak, her knowledge of automobiles and skill at driving had saved many lives.

“Ah, the little ambulances,” René mocked, “yes, I recall.”

René!” Henri admonished. “Run away with me, Mademoiselle,” he said, kissing Phryne’s hand. “I would know how to treat such a lady.”

“Lady?” René barked, dropping any pretense. He was clearly in one of his moods. “You are mistaken,” he said. “This black cat would scratch out your eyes.”

He reached out and grabbed Phryne around the waist, pulling her roughly to his side. She felt the jolt of excitement that always coursed through her at his touch.

“But you think you can handle me?” she teased cheekily, running a hand through his hair and pressing her body to his so that his head rested between her breasts, attempting to cajole him out of his gloom.

His grip on her waist tightened, almost painfully and he wrenched his head back from her, looking up into her eyes, his own hard, and dark with lust and resentment.

“Oui,” he said, softly, “I, and only I. You would do well to remember that.”

His hand ran slowly down from her waist before smacking her bottom and pinching it hard enough to bruise. He stood then, so quickly his chair skidded out from under him and toppled to the floor. He gripped her chin firmly in his hand, pushing her head up and bringing his mouth down on hers roughly, forcing her lips open to thrust his tongue down her throat.

She pulled free from his grip and dropped her head, trying to hide the feeling of revulsion that passed through her. He had shocked her. She usually liked it when he was forceful.

René,” she demurred, “you are being rude to our guest.”

Henri was watching them with concern. He had a skill for defusing tense situations in the café, having helped to prevent many a fight, his good-natured manner going a long way to calm tensions. His intimidating presence didn’t hurt either. Phryne met his eye, giving a small shake of her head. He was to leave this to her. She could handle René.

René saw the look pass between them and Phryne could feel his rage building.

“You are so concerned with the treatment of my guests? Perhaps you wish to entertain Henri on your own? Or, perhaps you are already worn out from whoever else it is you were entertaining?” he sneered.

“You know I was sitting for Pierre tonight,” she objected, bristling at the lewd emphasis he’d put on the word entertain.

“Pierre now, is it? How intimate you have become with Master Sarcelle,” René said, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Come now,” Henri interjected, no longer able to hold his tongue, “let us not quarrel.”

“She wastes her time with that fossil,” René shouted, pushing Phryne away, “time that should be spent sitting for me. My work is the future. Sarcelle —his time is passed.”

“You are being unfair to the girl,” Henri said, “and to Pierre. He has been a good friend to you.”

“And to me,” Phryne said defiantly. “I can see you are not rational tonight. The drink has got the better of you. I will not stay here and be chastised like a small child.”

“Where will you go?” René spat, “back to your precious Pierre?”

“Where I go is of no concern to you! I’m sorry Henri, excuse me.”

She turned on her heels, snatched up her hat and was out the door, slamming it behind her so hard it bounced against its frame and flew open again.

“Phryne!” She heard René roar.

“Let her go!” Henri said, firmly.

She didn’t wait to hear anything more, but made her way quickly out into the street and around the corner before stopping to lean against the building to catch her breath. René’s gloomy moods were nothing unusual. When she saw one coming, she need only tease him a bit, or touch him in the right way to bring him out of it. But tonight had felt different. She put it down to too much wine and the frustration he’d been feeling over his work. He said that he felt blocked lately, and that when he couldn’t paint the whole world seemed out of balance.

She’d find somewhere else to stay tonight and let him sleep it off. Ten minutes later, her options being somewhat limited, she found herself outside Vianne’s door and relieved to find her friend at home.

“But of course you may stay!” Vianne exclaimed in her breezy, welcoming fashion. “I have missed you. You should never have gone in the first place. We will now be like before!”

“You are too generous, as always,” Phryne laughed, embracing her friend warmly. “I’m sure it will be only tonight. Tomorrow all will be forgotten.”

Vianne tilted her head, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Really Vianne, it’s fine. René is a passionate man. He has been unhappy and drank too much. His muse, he says, is uncooperative,” Phryne justified.

“Ah. Oui,” Vianne derided, “always with the men it is some excuse —his work, your laziness and disrespect. It is never his fault.”

“It’s not like that,” Phryne argued, but deep inside something pricked at her conscious. She heard her mother’s voice in her head. _‘He’s tired. He tries so hard but can’t find suitable work. He loves me.’_

She shook it off. This was not the same. For one thing, she didn’t love René and he didn’t love her. She had moved in with him but that was for convenience. She’d trespassed on Vianne’s hospitality long enough and had been spending most nights with him anyway, it seemed logical.

René was the most exciting lover she’d ever encountered. She planned to stay with him awhile, and enjoy herself, while learning all she could from him. Her experiences to this point had been somewhat limited.

There’d been Vic, before the war. Not her first, but the first with whom she’d had an ongoing affair. She had thought him a competent lover and was very fond of him. News of his death had hit her hard.

Then there had been the men during the war. Boys really, that passed through the hospital wounded, but not so badly as to merit a trip home. They’d clung to her desperately in the days before they returned to the fighting, and she’d let them use her body for respite, a chance to feel alive before the fear and hopelessness they knew was to come.

Those encounters had varied greatly. Some were selfish. Working only to bring about their own release, fast and hard. Her body was merely a tool and of little consequence, but they were always appreciative, and more often than not, their rough need was exhilarating. Especially when taken illicitly, against a wall, or with the threat of discovery looming over them.

Other encounters were slightly awkward and over quickly. The boys were tentative and sweet. She suspected, on those occasions, it was a first experience for the boy, and she was glad to have been able to provide it, but rarely found satisfaction herself.

Then, there were the deliciously slow and tender lovers. The ones that took their time and wrung out every ounce of pleasure. The ones that pulled her body into oblivion and made her understand what was meant by _le petite mort._

But none to-date had been quite like René. René was a man. A man with skill and experience. She recalled that first meeting. The one that had sent her spiraling.

She’d been sitting for Pierre and his preliminary sketch of her was almost complete, when one evening Dubois came into the studio. Pierre and Veronique greeted him warmly, exchanging hugs and kisses, before Pierre had introduced his new model, and René turned his eyes to her.

“Tu approuves?” Pierre asked

“What treasure is this?” René replied, prowling over to where she lay. She was completely naked and exposed before him, but his eyes never left her face and she couldn’t tear her own away from his. He knelt before her, offering his hand and, in a daze, she reached out her own, allowing him to press it gently to his lips.

“René Dubois. At your service, Mademoiselle.”

She felt the breath heaving into her lungs as a desperate heat settled in her belly, and a rush of moisture gathered between her thighs. She knew the feeling well, but rarely had it hit so quickly, or so intensely.

Pierre cleared his throat, breaking the spell, and suggested they end the sitting for the evening. They invited Phryne to join them for a drink, but she had plans with Vianne and did not like to keep her friend waiting. Besides, she was afraid her blatant reaction to his touch had given her away. She didn’t want him to think of her as a fawning child. Still, it was with reluctance that she’d dressed and said her goodbyes.

A few nights later Pierre and Veronique invited her to accompany them to Café Anatole. By now she was a somewhat regular visiter to the café. She’d become acquainted with many of the other patrons and, as Pierre’s new model, she was a bit of a curiosity and found herself surrounded by throngs of people. They were all so lively, intelligent and well-read. She learned about new schools of art and was introduced to poetry of the likes she’d never before read. She discussed philosophy and the new, changing attitudes the war had brought about.

She’d always been a curious student, excelling at academics despite a rebellious attitude and a father who didn’t value education. To be able to talk with such talented, impressive people and to be taken seriously, and have her quick and clever mind appreciated, was thrilling.

It wasn’t all philosophy and art. There were games, music and crazy, mad parties. She’d sit at a table among friends drinking wine and champagne and laughing the loud, boisterous laugh she’d been told all her life was too loud, too brash and undignified. Here, no one criticized her. They laughed along with her.

Several times she had observed René Dubois, each time finding him more intriguing. He wasn’t as tall as she’d first thought, and older too, but his sex appeal was undeniable and she’d felt a strong pull toward him. He kept himself distant from the more riotous of the crowd. He somehow seemed above them all. Until now, she’d watched only from a distance. After their introduction at Pierre’s studio the other night, and the force of her body’s reaction, she was determined to seduce him.

Tonight, she was intent on creating her opportunity. She remained behind Pierre as they approached Dubois. He was working on a large painting, playing to the crowd as was his habit, and relishing in the attention and applause.

“René, you waste your talent. This Dadaism is just empty parody,” Pierre lectured, in a good natured manner.

“There can be no brave new world if there is no brave new art,” René replied.

“Well, if this is the new art then I will happily remain in the Dark Ages,” laughed Pierre, turning to smile at Phryne who had drawn closer to his side.

“A dinosaur, that is you, mon ami,” René cried, grasping Pierre’s face in his hands and kissing him soundly before looking over his shoulder at Phryne and exclaiming, “It’s a crime wasting a beautiful body like this black cat on the likes of you.”

He turned away, returning to his work as Pierre and Veronique moved on laughing. Phryne saw her moment. She slid up alongside him, standing closer than might be conventionally acceptable and said, in her most seductive tone, “and you, Monsieur René,” she waited a beat until he turned slowly to face her, “what would you do with my body?”

His eyes met hers and held, perhaps sizing up her fortitude. Apparently, she passed his test, because he turned, stubbed out his cigarette and, without another word took her hand and led her from the room, through the kitchen and out into the back alley. He turned her, one hand on her back, the other cupping her head as he pressed her gently against the brick wall and kissed her with promising intent.

She reached for him, gripping his shoulder and allowing his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of cigarettes and wine. She didn’t have much time to ponder this before she felt his hand run down her leg and raise her knee bringing her thigh to his hip. He pressed himself between her. She was already warm and wet, anticipating the feel of him pushing into her, forcing the breath from her lungs as he impaled her against the wall.

René had other plans. He raised her skirt, pressing his hands against her, inside her, his confident touch causing her to sag in his arms and nearly slide to the ground. He caught her, steadying her again against the wall before sucking her lower lip into his mouth and pulling back, smiling at the look of excitement she knew was on her face. He dropped to his knees, pulling her leg over his shoulder and plunged his head beneath her skirts.

 _Good lord!_ Her head lolled back against the wall, the leg still fixed to the ground beginning to shake. She’d heard of this, read about it, but had yet to encounter a lover that had attempted it. The shattering climax she experienced moments later had him chuckling softly against her still trembling thighs.

He set her leg gently on the ground and stood, pulling her close to keep her upright, his pelvis pressed firmly to hers, his need obvious.

“You are young, and beautiful, my black cat. If you will allow, there is so much I would like to teach you,” he purred, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.

She laughed then. A deep, throaty rumble.

“I believe you will find me an apt and eager pupil, monsieur,” she said.

Eager, she had been, and he, insatiable. They had an all consuming, irrational need for each other’s body and she loved it. It felt exciting and a little dangerous. She learned what to do to provoke his desire. For one thing, he enjoyed watching her flirt with other men. Seeing their lust for her, but knowing she would refuse them and be with him later, made him a more ardent lover. Sometimes, he couldn’t even wait to get her back to the apartment and they would seek out a dark corner, or the back alley for a quick and desperate fuck.

She also learned how far she could take her attentions to other men. It was a fine line that if stepped too far over left René railing and berating her as a tease and a whore. She learned quickly how to avoid his anger and keep him satisfied.

Her only real concern came when he refused to wear a french letter, saying it felt unnatural and that he wanted nothing between them. She had no desire to fall pregnant, so she sought advice from Vianne, who referred her to a friend that provided her with a brilliant device called a Dutch Cap, as a method of birth control. She didn’t tell René about the device, choosing to preemptively insert it whenever she planned to see him.

Phryne pulled herself back to the present wondering, briefly, if her instinct for deception and her efforts to carefully trod around René’s temper were a warning of a sort. She took the glass of wine Vianne held out, smiling at her friend and sitting heavily down on the coach, pulling her legs up under her.

“You are alright?” Vianne asked with concern, “he has not hurt you?”

“Hurt me? No. Of course not, it was just a quarrel.”

Vianne’s eyes narrowed and she took a sip of her wine. “You would tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell. It was nothing.”

“It was enough to make you leave.” The statement hung in the air between them. “I warned you not to lose your heart to him.”

Phryne scoffed. “I may have lost a bit of my senses, but not my heart.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I am not in love Vianne.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“It is. I don’t believe in love. Not romantic love anyway. It’s a fantasy.”

“What? Like Père Noël?” Vianne laughed.

“Yes,” Phryne said, her chin jutting out. “My mother is a hopeless romantic. I’d rather go deaf than hear one more time how she ‘lost all reason’ dancing with my wastrel of a father.”

“You do not think your parents love each other?”

“If that’s love, I want nothing to do with it.”

“Hmm. And René? What of him? Does he love you?”

“Not that he’s mentioned,” she said dryly. “What we have, René and I, it’s a physical thing.”

Vianne shook her head. “Well. We will speak no more of love and men. We will drink and be merry and have a gay time!” Vianne said, raising her glass high.

They did just that, drinking and laughing into the night. Vianne told Phryne of the new artist she was sitting for, a young woman studying at Académie Ranson.

“A student? Can she pay you?”

“No, but for some, I do not require this. Her’s, I think, is a rare talent, just blossoming. Someday, she will be famous and I will be able to say I was her model. It is such an exciting time Phryne! So many possibilities and I am open to it all,” she said, throwing her arms wide, her drink sloshing over her hand. “In fact,” her voice dropped conspiratorially, “my sittings with this young artist have been exhilarating in an unexpected way that I hope to be able to explore further. The naked, sexual charisma you say you see in René? This woman has it in abundance. I find just being in the room with her an electrifying experience. She does not yet know her own appeal. She is married, but I can tell she feels the frisson too. Perhaps, when she has finished her sketch of me, I will persuade her to try something new.”

“I didn’t realize you were attracted to women, Vianne.”

“I am attracted to spirit, to a person’s energy. Male, female, it matters not. I was attracted to you when we met, but alas, it was not to be. We were destined to be good friends, not lovers. Do I shock you?”

“Not especially,” Phryne shrugged, letting her head fall back against the couch. “I find I prefer the hard planes of the male form myself,” she said contemplatively, “and I do like a good cock, but I can see the appeal of nimble fingers and a more delicate touch.”

Vianne roared with laughter. “Is it always about the physical with you? I did not believe you when you said you rejected romantic love as fantasy, but perhaps you know yourself better than I.” She drained her glass and stood. “Or, perhaps someday you will find yourself faced with a most unexpected and encompassing love, and it will change your mind.”

“Not likely,” Phryne said, rolling her eyes.

“It is late. I need sleep,” Vianne said. She went to the wardrobe and tossed a pillow and some bedding to Phryne before retreating to her room.

Phryne lay back, snuggling comfortably under the duvet, but sleep eluded her. It hadn’t really been that big a blow up, but what was it she had sensed in René tonight that had set off alarms? She wondered, uncomfortably, if she was brushing away something important. Was she in love and making excuses for him the way her mother did for her father?

No. She didn’t love him, of this she was sure. It was more like a craving. A craving for his body. No, not even that. It was a craving for the way he made _her_ body feel. She was fairly confident she could replace him with another man that made her feel the same way. The problem was, no man before had ever made her thrill like he did. What if she couldn’t find it again? She didn’t think she could give it up, and the panic she felt at that thought frightened her.

She’d seen the way morphine took hold of some men and wouldn’t let them go. Even when the pain of their injuries were passed, they craved it. When they couldn’t get it they were crazed, irrational in their need. It hadn’t been hard for her to recognize the signs, and she’d realized she’d seen it her entire life in her father’s need for alcohol, and the oblivion it provided.

For the wounded men, who fell into their addiction while in pain and agony, she felt empathy. Men like her father, who succumbed for no good reason other than their own pathetic weakness, she could not abide. She wouldn’t allow herself to display such a weakness. Not for a man.

René had done as he’d promised and taught her well. She knew her body better now. She knew what pleased her. As if to convince herself of this, she let her hand slide down between her thighs and brought herself to a quick and satisfying climax.

Feeling replete, and a little smug, she rolled to her side, snuggling into the pillow again. With the next man she would be the teacher. She would show a man how to play a woman’s body like the finely tuned instrument it was. The women that followed would silently thank her, not knowing whom they were praising, but forever grateful.

And there would be other men. René could not possibly be so very extraordinary. There would be others that would bring her to such heights, perhaps in new, and more exciting ways.

It was nearing time to move on before René became any more attached and began demanding things of her she had no intention to give. With that thought in her head, she drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for Henri's french: rabat-joie = killjoy  
> Mon chou = my cabbage (a common french term of endearment)
> 
> The artist Vianne mentions was inspired by Tamara de Lempicka.
> 
> Hispano France began an operations factory in 1911 in the Paris suburbs and by 1914, now under the name Hispano-Suiza, the Paris factory had become Hispano's main plant for producing their largest, most costly models. (source: wikipedia)
> 
> Alcoholism was not recognized by the AMA as a disease until 1959.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a violent encounter that left her shaken, Phryne is through with René. Or, is she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains rough, non-consensual sex and violent images.

Phryne returned to René’s flat late the next morning with every intent to pack her things. She strode confidently into the room, but her heart stuttered when she saw him. He looked as though he’d not slept a wink. He was utterly disheveled. His hair wildly messed, his clothes in disarray. He stood up from the table with pleading eyes, stretching his arms out to her. To her dismay, it pulled at her. He looked as though he’d just been thoroughly ravaged, and it was arousing.

“Ma petite Phryne,” he said, “forgive me.”

She raised her chin imperiously. “You do not control me, René.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding in agreement and prowling closer.

“I will come and go as I please,” she said, shifting slightly from one foot to the other. He was so near.

“Yes,” he said in her ear, as he pushed the door shut behind her and snaked his arm around her waist, moving down to cup her bottom and pull her tight against him. He leaned into her and she felt his breath in her ear, “but I do so much prefer it when you come.”

* * *

That night, when she strolled into Café Anatole on his arm, Vianne shot her a quizzical look and all Phryne could do was shrug. He’d apologized, and she’d decided to wean herself slowly. Why suffer the pains of sudden withdrawal.

She slipped back into their routine. Lots of drinking, lots of sex and hours of her sitting for him as he labored over a canvas. He started and stopped several sketches, declaring them wrong, and then trying her in a different pose, some of them bordering on distasteful, and many quite submissive. Whenever he placed her in a particularly docile pose the work was often delayed as he’d need to release the desire that built up in him.

She found it intoxicating that he was so in thrall to her. He seemed to need her body to survive and his desire was contagious. She spent more and more time with him, neglecting her friends, and Pierre, with the excuse that René was in a rare period of inspiration and needed her. Pierre was understanding, which only made Phryne feel worse, because it was a lie.

In fact, René couldn’t seem to stick with any one piece, constantly starting and stopping, rarely making it past the initial rough sketch. Each time he was sure he finally had it right. He’d sit her just so, bending her arm this way or that, telling her to arch her back, wet her lips, place her hand here or there, only to run his hands through his hair in frustration when the sketch came out wrong.

Today he was restless. Murmured affections and caresses alternated with barking complaints that she was, once again, distracting him and blocking his muse.

He came over to her and stood her up, then turned the chair around, and placed her facing it, her back to him. He ran his hands over her and up into her hair. She arched her head back, letting it cascade behind her, his fingers tangling in her curls.

“You have the most beautiful hair,” he said, gathering it in his hands and bringing to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Do not ever cut it.”

Suddenly, he bent her over the back of the chair and forced her head down so that she was breathing in the stall odors of cigarette and sweat embedded in the cushions. She wanted to object, but he was in a tense mood, so she tried to be still and do what she could to help him find the inspiration that alluded him.

He stood behind her, running his hands over her back, and buttocks, and along her thighs. “You have the most delectable ass,” he said, leaning down to give it a sharp bite. “So plump, and ripe.”

She wiggled it in the air for him and arched her back, lifting her head. He pressed her down again.

“Don’t turn around,” he admonished, “and don’t move.”

“René,” she sighed, twisting a little, “I’m uncomfortable.”

He slapped her bottom hard and barked at her again not to move. He placed a hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face further into the chair and she felt him suddenly, roughly, inside her, thrusting violently. For a moment she couldn’t breath with his hand so firmly on her neck, holding her mouth and nose against in the cushion, but he finally released her neck to get a better hold on her hips and she was able to turn her head and draw in a relieving breath. She tried to push back against him, but he only held her more firmly in place.

He was grunting and moaning behind her, dragging her hips painfully over the rough mohair upholstery that thinly covered the chair’s hard wood frame. She felt nothing but disbelief, shock and pain. She hadn’t been anywhere near ready for him and was too stunned to say anything to stop him. When she did cry out, it seemed to excite him more and he only became more crazed and forceful. He finally finished, and she lay limply over the back of the chair, her body wracked. She heard him do up his trousers, and felt him place a gentle kiss to the base of her spine.

“Yes,” he said, approaching the blank canvas and looking over his tableau with satisfaction. “This is how I will paint you. This is honest, raw, real.”

Phryne was dazed. She grappled with confusing emotions. They’d had intercourse. Hardly surprising. She’d inserted her dutch cap before the sitting began in anticipation of it. They’d even been rough with each other before, so why then, did she feel so violated?

Was it the speed with which it had happened, or the fact that he hadn’t seemed to take her comfort into consideration? In fact, he’d hardly seemed to consider her at all. Had she somewhere along the way given him tacit approval to use her body however he wished?

Her stomach roiled and clenched and she pulled herself to her feet, barely making it to the sink before retching her guts out. Once her stomach was empty and she tasted nothing but bile in her mouth, a righteous anger began to build. She stood straight and turned to face him, ready to tear into him, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold.

Blind fury is what she saw. He threw the pencil he’d been holding at her.

“Useless cunt,” he spat. “Clean that up,” he snarled before stomping out the door.

Phryne stood frozen in place. How long she stood there, she didn’t know, but when she returned to a semblance of consciousness, she was shivering with cold. She looked back at the sink, still filled with the remnants of her sick and reached for a rag underneath to begin cleaning it. Again, she froze, then dropped the rag to the floor and turned toward the bedroom.

She dressed quickly, packed her things and was out the door as fast as her feet would carry her, determined never to set foot inside the apartment again.

She went first to Vianne’s, but her friend was not home. She waited, but as night neared, didn’t want to be caught with nowhere to sleep, and be forced to return to René, so she swallowed her pride and went to Veronique and Pierre. She wasn’t sure how she’d be received after treating them so poorly and throwing over Pierre to sit for René. She was thoroughly ashamed of herself and apologized tearfully.

Veronique pulled her into a warm embrace.

“Let yourself cry, sweet child. We all know the pain of a broken love affair,” Veronique said.

Phryne wanted to explain to her friends that it wasn’t really a broken love affair, but the alternative was so much more mortifying. She couldn’t admit that in her pursuit of carnal pleasures she’d allowed a man to have such control over her. Better to let the Sarcelles think she’d been jilted and was lovesick. It was easier that way. Besides, she didn’t want to damage their friendship with René.

“What will I do? I have no where to go,” she said, hopelessly.

“You are always welcome here,” Pierre said.

“Of course you are,” Veronique concurred. “We have a lovely room, just waiting to be of use to our friends.”

“You are too kind,” she said.

“Non, ma cherie, I am selfish. Now I will have my muse close to hand,” Pierre said, winking gaily at her.

The next day as she settled into her pose for Pierre, she was stuck by the differences between the two artists. Pierre treated her, and all his models, with such care. He requested that she take a position, or move her head just so, he didn’t demand, and he always asked permission before touching her to reposition an arm or tuck back an errant curl of her hair. He asked after her comfort and often inquired if she needed a rest.

And then there was his work. The paintings were magnificent. Each one of the canvases she saw circling the walls more beautiful than the next. They had life and movement.

He had finished the nude for which Veronique had been the model, clearly having concentrated on that painting in Phryne’s absence. The subject lay reclined on a settee, propped comfortably against large pillows. Her back faced the artist and her head was turned to look at him. The ghost of a smile hid behind the swell of her shoulder, and was evident in her eyes. Those eyes conveyed a humor, a warmth and affection that made the model come alive. She was a living, breathing woman, the rounds and curves of her body given the loving attention of a caress. Everything else was muted and undefined. Only she stood out, incandescent against the dark background. It was breathtaking.

In contrast, René’s abstract images seemed flat and false. It wasn’t the school of art he followed, it was his interpretation that faltered. He covered his lack of skill with flamboyance and bombast. What she’d mistaken as passion was hubris, and an immature need for attention. He railed against Pierre, saying his day was over, his work tired and passé. That, she now realized, was jealousy.

In a way, she felt sorry for him. It must be very hard to want something so very much. To dream of being a great talent and yet know, deep down, your limitations.

She was also a little ashamed by her own behavior. She knew she taunted him at times. She enjoyed being able to distract him from his work. She knew how to shift her body, smile pleasingly and what tone of voice to use to make him take notice. It excited her to see the lust that darkened his eyes, and watch as his trousers drew taut from a growing erection. And his hands on her. The way he touched her. Even after what had happened, she didn’t think she was ready to give that up.

She was sure he hadn’t meant to hurt her. They often had rough sex, but this time, his behavior was beyond the pale. If she continued on with him, and that was a big if, it would have to be on her terms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne moves on from René exploring the city, having some revealing and intriguing encounters —and a bit of snogging.

More than a week went by before she spoke with René again. When he’d discovered she’d packed up and left, he came straight to Vianne’s looking for her, but when Vianne refused to open the door, Phryne stayed in the back of the apartment until he gave up and went away.

She alternated staying some nights with Vianne and some with the Sarcelles, if sittings went late. She’d told Vianne the story and admitted that she was shaken by what had occurred and that René’s temper had frightened her, but the Sarcelles still knew very little of it. She didn’t want to poison their friendship with René.

She spent long hours posing for Pierre, but didn’t really mind it. Veronique and Pierre were so lovely and she enjoyed watching them together. She knew she did not want for herself what Veronique had found with Pierre. Given the chance, she’d prefer to be the revered artist, and even then she didn’t think she’d enjoy such a doting spouse, but she could appreciate the beauty in their relationship, and if it made them happy, she was happy for them.

The first time she returned to Café Anatole, René tried to speak to her, expressing bewilderment at their estrangement. She simply told him she’d had enough of his unpredictable behavior and was moving on. He insisted she’d be back, that their love was something that would not be denied. She’d just shook her head, and returned to her friends. She was afraid, for a moment, that he would try to stop her from walking away from him, and he did reach out and grab her arm rather forcefully, but Anatole happened by at that moment and René released her. She suspected he did not want to be seen as desperately begging for the attentions of a woman. He tried to go back to his painting, but his usual flamboyant manner seemed stilted and he was unable to draw the adoring attention of the crowds as he usually did. Eventually, she noticed, he’d put away his brushes for the night and settled glumly at a table, smoking, with a bottle in front of him.

She did her best to ignore him, refusing to let him tug at her emotions. She found herself surrounded by men, all seeking her out now that they knew she was no longer with René. She settled on a young poet that she’d not seen at the café before.

Damien was not the handsomest of the men in the room, but he had a spark. There was a light in him that she found very appealing. She began to understand what Vianne had meant by being attracted to a person’s spirit and energy.

They had found a quiet corner for private conversation. She leaned against a post, lost in the depth of his eyes and the intensity of his passion as he spoke of the world.

A searing pain shot suddenly through her upper arm. She cried out and instinctively raised her hand to the spot. It was such a concentrated, acute pain she wondered for a moment if she’d been shot. Her companion expressed alarm at her cries, reaching for her in concern.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” she said. The pain lingered and she twisted her head trying to see what was causing it.

“Here,” Damien said, “let me see.”

She turned and let him look at her arm. She’d worn a sleeveless dress tonight, with a crocheted shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She dropped the shawl off one shoulder to give him a better look.

He hissed, touching her skin lightly just below the spot that now throbbed with a pulsing pain.

“I think,” he began, lifting his eyes from her arm to look around the immediate area suspiciously, “It looks like a burn. Perhaps from a cigarette.” He looked in her eyes with worry. “Is it very painful?”

It was painful. She pulled her arm forward, twisting her head until she saw the angry red mark on her arm. Next, she examined her shawl. It was a loose weave and someone had clearly taken aim through one of the holes. There were singe marks on the thread on either side.

“Who would do such a thing?” Damien said.

Phryne’s gaze went immediately to the table she’d seen René at earlier. He was still sitting there and for all she knew had never left the spot. She dismissed the thought. Surely this was an accident. Someone passing by had been careless with their cigarette. But, damn. It hurt.

“You should put something on that,” Damien said. “I have heard that butter can be helpful for burns.”

“No,” she said. “You should never put anything oily or greasy on a burn. It will only keep the heat in. I need some cold water and I have an ointment back at the apartment that will help.”

Damien went immediately to find some cool water, soaking a clean napkin and handing it to her so she could press it to her wound.

“Would you like me to accompany you home?” he said. “You should probably tend to that as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I would appreciate that.”

They made the short walk back to Vianne’s. Damien made to leave her when they reached the door, but she invited him up and after a moments hesitation, he followed her in. The apartment was empty, Vianne still at the café, and unaware of what had happened. Phryne was not sorry to have the place to herself. She was growing increasingly attracted to Damien, and that a man other than René could hold her attention was a happy discovery.

She dropped her shawl over a chair and went to find a clean cloth, soaking it in the coldest water she could get from the tap. The wound was nasty, but she didn’t think it would blister. The cigarette must have touched her skin for a relatively brief time. If she was lucky, it may not even leave a scar.

“Is there any way I can help?” Damien asked.

She sent him to the bathroom in search of the arnica cream while she refreshed the cloth with water. The cold was helping to relieve the pain and the burn was only mildly uncomfortable now. She thought another glass of wine might help to dull the pain further and poured one for herself and Damien.

“Would you mind applying that? The spot is hard for me to see,” she asked Damien, sitting beside him on the coach and indicating the jar of cream he was spinning nervously in his hands.

“Happy to help,” he said.

He unscrewed the lid and gingerly dipped a long finger inside, coating the tip. He took her arm, holding it gently at the elbow, and dabbed at the wound.

“This is a crime,” he sighed. “It must be very painful. I don’t understand why someone would intentional hurt another person. Haven’t we had enough pain in the world?”

Phryne was pleasantly surprised by his remark. She’d been expecting to hear something trite about how it was criminal to mar such beautiful skin.

“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, and it’s just a flesh wound,” she said. “I don’t think it will leave a disfiguring mark.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway. Anyone that spends a moment with you can see that your beauty comes from within,” he said simply. He looked up from his attention to her injury and blinked when he saw the amused way she was smiling at him.

“That’s not to say you aren’t beautiful to look upon,” he said quickly, clearly worried that he might have offended her.

She leaned forward and kissed him sweetly. When she pulled away, he looked surprised and pleased.

“What was that for?” he said.

“Do you really have to ask?” she said, taking the jar of ointment from his hands and setting it aside. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled her body closer to his. He caressed her cheek with the palm of his hand. His touch was warm and tender. His eyes sought permission to kiss her again. She nodded, and in case that wasn’t a clear enough consent, initiated another kiss herself. He returned the kiss this time, deepening it, his hands coming to her hips to pull her a little closer.

He was a delightful kisser. Clearly practiced, and fairly skilled. She moaned into his mouth and felt his arms tighten around her, a small echoing moan escaping from his lips as well. He held her firmly but gently and she was reminded of how varied a lover’s touch can be.

René was forceful and demanding, and as much as she enjoyed that, she found herself equally excited by this new touch. When Damien moved a hand around to palm her breast, she arched her back to increase the pressure. He dropped his mouth to her other breast, placing his open lips over her nipple, and through her bodice, she felt his hot breath against the sensitive skin. It had been awhile since anyone had touched her through her clothing like this, and it was incredibly erotic.

For a long while they caressed and kissed, until they both pulled away panting with desire. The sweet longing in his eyes increased the need already swelling in her chest. She touched her forefinger to his lips, tracing them lightly, watching his eyes flutter shut at the fairly innocent contact. His hair was loose and falling haphazardly over his forehead. She must have run her hands through it thoroughly, but she had no recollection of that. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, his breathing was labored, the pulse in his neck pounding rapidly. He wanted her, and she felt entirely safe in his hands.

She slid her open palm down his chest to the waistband of his trousers, her other hand coming to assist. She wanted to see him and hold him, and later, feel him inside her. His hands came down over her’s, stilling them.

“No,” he said. “We must stop.”

“Whatever for?” she said. “I want you, Damien.”

“And I you,” he said. “Rather desperately.” He laughed shyly, looking down at the obvious bulge in his trousers. “But, I am only passing through. I leave tomorrow for Avignon. I don’t know when I might return. It would not be fair.”

“I’m not expecting a commitment,” she said, “but I would like to explore this energy between us. I think it could be beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think so too, but tomorrow we will be left with nothing but the pain of having loved and lost.”

“But, we may have regrets either way,” she argued. “At least this way we’ll know what it is we are pining for.”

His head tilted to one side and he searched her face. She could tell he was very tempted. “You make a good point,” he said smiling, “But your arm. It must still hurt and I wouldn’t want you to aggravate it.”

“It’s not so painful anymore and I think this might be a welcome distraction.”

His face fell.

“I see. Then, perhaps it is only to myself that I would be unfair.” He smiled ruefully at her confusion. “I am an oddity these days, I know,” he said. “Maybe it is the poet in me, but I believe in love and I think, if I had the time to know you more, I could love you. In fact, I feel it might be a wonderful, life changing kind of love.”

She must have looked skeptical.

“Do you doubt this?” he questioned. “I don’t see why you should. You are amazing, Phryne. And I would very much like to take you to bed,” He said it without a hint of irony or false flattery. “But, I don’t want to be a distraction. Not even for you.”

“Oh, Damien!” she cried, “I didn’t mean it like that!” She realized she’d hurt him with her careless words, but she wasn’t sure how to fix it. The kind of idealized love he spoke of was something she actively avoided, and she knew she didn’t feel that for him. But, maybe she was too quick to refuse the idea of it. She did feel a connection with him.

“I’m not a romantic person, Damien. I don’t think I ever have been, but I am very much attracted to you. I didn't attempt to seduce you as a distraction. You touch my soul, and believe me, that is a hard thing for me to admit.”

“You are making it very difficult for me not to love you,” he said, but his tone was light and a little teasing.

“Then love me,” she said, linking her arms around his neck again, “if only for tonight.”

He licked his lips and sucked his lower lip in between his teeth. “You are a temptress, aren’t you?” he said, but there was no scolding in his words. “I do want you, make no mistake about that. But, can you understand that to love you tonight, and then leave you, would hurt me?”

She looked in his eyes and could tell he was entirely sincere. She resigned herself to disappointment.

“I think I can,” she said, taking his face in her hands and kissing him affectionately. “I would never wish to cause you pain. Of course, I will respect your feelings. You are a wonderful man, Damien. The woman that gets to love you will be a lucky one.”

“And the man that wins your heart will be more fortunate than a king,” he said.

She wondered about that. She was fairly sure she was incapable of the kind of love Damien spoke of. A life changing love. It was a nice thought and a part of her wished for a moment that such a thing really existed, but the larger part of her knew that kind of love was a trap. It was all right for the man. He could have it without giving up much of himself. For a woman, it was different. For a woman, love was a cage that held her, tied her to another, not as an equal, but as a piece of property.

But, in this moment, oh how she wished it were real and that she could love him.

“Can I ask you to hold me?” she said. “Or, is that too much?”

He shook his head, smiling his beautiful smile at her. “I would like that.”

He enfolded her in his arms, leaning back against the couch, pulling her to his chest. She relaxed against him and they sat quietly together for several minutes. Eventually, they began talking again. All night long they talked. He told her of his experiences in the trenches. Of his fear, and the friends he had lost. He’d seen horrible things but was not wrecked by them. He still thought there was good in people and was a student of the world, fascinated by art and science and all the rapid advancements taking place.

She shared his enthusiasm and found him easy to talk to. She talked with him of things she rarely did anyone. She told him about her sister, Janey, and let him hold her again while she wept over the loss of the greatest love of her life.

Just before dawn, he rose to go. His train was leaving in a few hours and he needed to return to his lodgings and collect his things. She walked him down to the street and he kissed her one last time. It was a kiss full of longing and what might have been.

He brushed the hair away from her face and gave her a smile so open it revealed just how much younger than she he really was, though in years they were nearly the same. He’d made it through the war without coming out damaged and hardened and she was so grateful for that. If she ever did love a man, she hoped he would have some of the qualities she saw in him. His wonder at the world around him and his curiosity, but she knew she was more jaded than he by her war experiences and her early upbringing in poverty. She knew there was good in the world, but there was such cruelty and injustice too. She didn’t let it keep her in constant gloom but she knew there was another side of her. A side that manifested in a dark humor he would not understand.

“I won’t forget you,” he said.

“You should,” she replied, though she knew she’d always remember him. He would serve as a reminder to her to be careful with people, to respect their feelings and never take them for granted. In the future, when she sought a casual liaison she must be clear, from the very beginning, about what she had to offer, and what she did not.

“I don’t want to be a pale memory for you,” she said. “I don’t want to be a regret. When you find the love I know is waiting for you, I want to be only a pleasant tickling in the back of your mind. An indistinct memory, but one that fills you with joy.”

“I’ll try to abide by your wishes, but I’m not sure it will be possible. At the very least, I will write about you, Phryne Fisher. You will stay with me in my words.”

Later that day an envelope was delivered to her door. On the paper inside was written a brief, but beautiful poem. Much like her time with him. She read it several times over until she had it memorized, then lit a match and burned the paper in the flame.


	6. Chapter 6

Phryne avoided Café Anatole after that night. It wasn’t that she was letting René keep her away, she told herself, it was just that she wanted to explore different haunts. She didn’t know how much longer she’d stay in Paris, or if she’d ever be back again, and she wanted to have as many new experiences as possible. There was no shortage of exciting venues and parties to be found.

Phryne threw herself into the drinking, dancing and general merriment that seemed to blanket the city at night. The war was over and the streets still teemed with soldiers from many different countries. Young men, far from home, stunned to find themselves alive and mostly whole, were to be found around every corner. They’d sometimes whistle when Phryne and Vianne passed on the street, or bow before them, pretending to swoon and request a kiss.

In the clubs the men bought them drinks and begged for dances, sometimes pressing too close, their longing for connection and warmth evident in their despairing gaze and the desperate clutch of their hands. Phryne let them cling to her, but never promised more. She would gladly enfold them in her warm embrace for the length of a song, reminded of the boys she’d lost. The one’s whose hands she’d held, murmuring in their ear of all the people back home that loved them, and held them close. She’d done her very best in those days to see that no man died alone and frightened. Not if she could help it.

Most of her hopeful suitors were sweet and young and grateful for her attention. There were other men too. The ones with a crazed, threatening look in their eyes. They too held her too close, but she became adept at keeping them at bay. Cajoling and placating for one dance before extricating herself from their grasp. These men were not ones you wished to encounter on the streets late at night. She and Vianne made a pact never to leave the other behind. There was safety in numbers.

One night, or more accurately early morning, she and Vianne were making their way home, elbows linked, swaying slightly and laughing uproariously as the recounted their evening.

Something pricked at the back of Phryne’s mind and she straightened. She continued on with Vianne, who seemed unaware of whatever had set Phryne’s senses tingling. Phryne continued laughing and joking, so as not to alarm her friend, but she was now on alert.

Not a moment later, two men sprang from the shadows and Phryne felt an arm wrap around her from behind, and wrench her away from Vianne. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her friend grappling with another man and knew she had to free herself quickly, and then assist Vianne before the men could drag them into the nearby alley.

Phryne let out a string of invectives, and slammed her heel down on her captor’s instep while swinging her elbow back with as much force as she could, twisting to aim for his solar plexus. The blow wasn’t as hard, or on target as she’d have liked, but it was enough to make the man claw for air and loosen his hold so she could spin about and bring her knee up into his groin. He fell back, doubled over, momentarily disabled.

She turned her attention to Vianne. Her friend had started screaming and her assailant, in a misguided attempt to quiet her, had clamped his hand over her mouth. Vianne took the opportunity to bite down with all her might on the errant thumb she’d found suddenly in between her teeth.

The man pulled back cursing, and raised his hand to hit Vianne across the face, but before he could take his swing, found himself gripped by two powerful arms, pulling him back and restraining him. The man that had come to their aid, a soldier, as made obvious by his uniform, threw the attacker to the ground and dropped beside him, placing his knee firmly on the flailing man’s back and twisting one arm into a position that was probably extremely painful, but unlikely to cause permanent damage.

The man Phryne had disabled stood bent at the waist and listing to one side in an attempt to relieve his aching balls. Another soldier stood between that man and Phryne, his arms held up in a boxer’s pose, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, as if waiting for the wounded man to make a move. Instead, the defeated assailant turned and fled, limping, down the alley. The other soldier, the one that had taken down Vianne’s attacker, pulled his man to his feet, giving him a good shove, and growled, “I’d follow your friend if I were you.” The would-be mugger knew good advice when he heard it.

Phryne blinked, looking first at Vianne, who seemed shaken, but no worse for the encounter, then at the first soldier, who still stared menacingly after the cowardly assailants retreating down the alley. The other soldier remained bouncing rather ridiculously, his arms still raised, fists clenched.

Adrenaline coursed through Phryne’s veins and her body hummed. She threw her head back and laughed. She laughed because in her time of need, her mind had known what to do and her body had responded magnificently. She laughed because she was young, free and alive. Her riotous peels rang through the early morning air until her eyes were streaming with tears and she had to gasp for breath. She caught the eye of the first soldier and watched his mouth turn up into a bemused smirk, his eyes shining with humor.

Vianne grasped her by the arms. “Calm yourself! You are quite hysterical!” Then turned to the men.

“Merci, messieurs, for coming to our aid!” Vianne said.

The bouncing soldier ceased his hopping and bowed gallantly. The other soldier, the handsome one, shrugged.

“It looked like you had everything well under control before we got here,” he said.

“You’re Australian,” Phryne said. He nodded.

“And you are clearly not French,” he said with a tilt of his head. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re a countryman.”

“Melbourne,” she confirmed, “You?”

“Same,” he said, with the surprise and delight that often accompanied the discovery of someone from home when you’re far away.

“A shame we never crossed paths,” she said, looking him over slyly.

“You have incredible reflexes, and a lethal knee,” he said with admiration, oblivious to her flirtatious comment. “You also curse like a sailor, but perhaps it’s impolitic of me to point that out.”

His lips spread into a wide, mischievous grin. It lit up his face, and where the small smirk she’d seen earlier had intrigued her, this smile brought a thrill like the dip of a roller coaster, or the bubbly delight of a sip of champagne.

“Two beautiful young ladies, such as yourselves, shouldn’t be wandering these streets alone,” the other soldier interjected pompously.

Phryne’s soldier, why she’d come to think of him as her’s she couldn’t fathom, rolled his eyes and said, “Christ, Reg, don’t be such an ass. They should be as free to walk the streets unmolested as you and I.”

Phryne looked at him in surprise, her lips curving into a small smile. When he noticed, she could have sworn she saw him blush. He really was adorable.

“Even so,” he continued, “these are crazy times and those men were drunk off their skulls. If you’d like, we’d be happy to see you safely to your door.”

“As our door is just around the next corner, that won’t be necessary, but thank you all the same,” Phryne said. Vianne shot her a look that could kill. She was also obviously charmed by her rescuer, and not so quick to want to be rid of him.

“As you wish, but, if you have no objection,” he continued, “and since we are heading in that direction anyway, may we walk behind and make sure you get inside?”

“If it would make you feel better,” Phryne assented, “and you’re welcome to walk at my side.”

“Thank you. After that display I have no doubt you can look after yourself, but, yes, it would make me feel better,” he said, with a slight nod of his head.

The soldier call Reg extended his arm to Vianne. “At your service, Mademoiselle.”

They moved on down the avenue, Phryne’s soldier falling right in step with her. He extended his arm slightly, in tentative invitation, and she found it remarkably easy, and entirely natural to slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. Again she felt that swoop in her stomach. The rollercoaster sensation returning.

“May I ask where you learned to do that?” he said.

“Curse like a sailor?” she said with a cheeky grin.

“The other bit. It was very impressive.”

“For a girl?” she inquired.

“For anyone. I have plenty of men under me that would react far less admirably under stress.”

A rather ribald comment about ‘reacting under him’ sprang to mind, but she bit it back. She was forming a conflicting impression of him. He seemed a serious and morally upstanding type of man, but there was something else there too. Something playful and lighthearted she wanted to explore. She wished the walk to the apartment was just a little bit longer.

“I grew up in Collingwood,” she said by way of explaining her defensive capabilities. Her eyes remained looking ahead, but she was alert, trying to discern how the revelation that she’d grown up on the ‘wrong side of the tracks’ would sit with him.

“Ah. Well, your early education served you well,” he said, without a trace of judgment.

She smiled, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet as she walked. “I’m a quick study. And I’ve always been scrappy.”

“Scrappy,” he repeated, glancing sideways at her. “Not how I’d have described you.”

His rich, resonant voice had dropped low, and she felt it vibrate somewhere deep in her core.

“I have to say I was enjoying watching you. I almost hated to step in but I feared you might fatally injure one of them. I might not have minded that so much, except that it would result in your incarceration. It’d be a real crime to see you caged.”

“Well, there’s not much chance of that,” she said. “Though, many men have tried.”

“I’ve no doubt,” he said in all sincerity, without the hint of an attempted seduction, which she thought a great shame. Although, that was probably for the best. She was feeling unusually flustered and a bit out of sorts. Residue, she was sure, from the excitement of the earlier altercation.

They reached the corner far too quickly.

“Well, this is where we leave you,” Phryne said, trying to keep her voice light and carefree. “Thank you for your chivalry.”

Even to her own ears it sounded ridiculously formal, and she wondered what on earth was the matter with her. She bowed slightly. Again, ridiculous. She turned away with Vianne before she could embarrass herself further.

“It was our pleasure,” Reg called after them.

“Mademoiselle,” her soldier called. Phryne turned, somehow knowing he addressed her and not Vianne. He met her eye and said, “You have an incredible laugh. Take care of it. And yourself.”

His statement was unsettlingly intimate, even if the words perfectly innocent, and Phryne felt herself blush, before rewarding him with a beatific smile.

She turned away then and didn't look back, but she knew that he stayed, standing sentinel, until they reached their door. Just before they went inside she heard Reg, exclaim to her soldier, whose name she realized she had not learned, “Dammit mate! Must you always be so noble? We could’ve at least tried to finagle an invite inside! And really, _‘an incredible laugh?’_ That’s the best you could do?”

“Shut up, Reg,” came the reply.

She and Vianne made their way inside and collapsed together on the sofa.

“Well, that will get the blood going,” Phryne said.

“The assault, or our rescuers?” Vianne laughed.

“A bit of both, actually!”

“He was very handsome, was he not?” Vianne sighed, “those brooding eyes and that wave in his hair.”

“Not to mention the broad shoulders. And, he’s light on his feet and good in a scrape too,” Phryne added.

“Yes, so many attractive qualities,” Vianne agreed.

“It’s probably for the best we let them go on their way or we may have quarreled over him!” Phryne said.

“Or shared him?” Vianne said with a quirked eyebrow and sly grin.

“And leave out poor Reg?” Phryne pouted.

“Oh,” Vianne said, “poor, hapless Reg, with his practiced gallantry and false bravado. He would be, I think, like an over eager puppy in bed. I might very much enjoy his enthusiasm. Yes. I will let you have the other.” She laughed at the expression on Phryne’s face. “You like that idea? Perhaps you now regret dismissing them so quickly?”

Phryne recalled her reaction to the soldier’s smile, and the way his voice rumbled through her. She wondered what other ways he might make her feel. She did like the idea. She liked it very much.

“Maybe we can still catch them!” she joked, though a part of her was not teasing at all.

There was a knock at the door and she popped up from the couch, “Let’s hope Reg has persuaded his stalwart friend to attempt a seduction after all!” she cried gleefully. She pulled the door open and the smile fell from her face.

"René," she said flatly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> René comes begging.

“Phryne, mon cœur,” he began, his eyes soft and pleading.

Vianne stood and immediately came to Phryne’s side.

“You are not welcome here,” Vianne said bluntly. “Please leave.”

Phryne watched René’s eyes flash with bitter anger. It was brief and fleeting, the repentant expression returning instantaneously, but it had been there, of that she was sure. He raised his hands in supplication.

“I must speak with you,” he said, appealing to Phryne and ignoring Vianne’s very presence. “Just for one moment, please. Do not make me beg. Leave me some pride.”

His voice was smooth as silk, soft and seductive. Phryne sighed and looked at Vianne, who was shaking her head vigorously.

“Just one minute,” Phryne promised, more to Vianne than René. Vianne’s lips pinched into a tight ball and her eyes expressed her annoyance. She looked from her friend to René.

“I will not have him in my home. Take it outside, but I will be right here, behind the door.”

Phryne stepped into the hall, pulling the door behind her but leaving it slightly ajar. Once in the hall, René reached for her hand, grasping it between both of his.

“Phryne, mon trésor, I cannot be without you. You must come home,” he said.

“Do _not_ call me that, and there is nothing I ‘must’ do,” she said haughtily.

“Non, of course, but please, for me. I want you so. I cannot eat or sleep,” he pleaded. He took a step closer to her, his fingers caressing her hand in a way that reminded her of other things those fingers could do to her. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat.

She pulled her hand free from his. “You look healthy enough to me,” she said, hearing the wanting way the words spilled from her mouth, instead of the dismissive tone she’d sought. He’d heard it too, she knew it by the small, satisfied way his lips turned up at the corners.

“Je t’aime, my Phryne, je vous adore,” he said. “Why did you leave me?”

“You behaved horribly René! You hurt me,” she said. “And you frightened me.”

“I have behaved badly, yes, and for that I am so very sorry, but you must forgive. I am a passionate man and you drive me to madness. My love for you drives me to madness. You must forgive me.”

Again, that word. Must. As though the choice was not hers.

“No,” she shook her head. “I am not required to forgive you, René. But, I will.”

He let out a long breath and reached for her, she stepped back, raising her hands to stop him.

“I will forgive you, but I am not coming back,” she said firmly, “we are through René.”

He blinked at her in stunned disbelief. For a moment she held her breath, afraid she’d see fury returning to his eyes, but he seemed to check himself.

“No,” he said shaking his head. “We are not through. You need me the way I need you. You will not leave me.”

His words were firm, but not threatening, as though he was simple stating a fact. She remembered Damien, and his hopes that she might love him. She hadn’t really ever considered that René might have deeper feelings for her than she for him. What they had was physically thrilling and at times consuming, but she’d always assumed they both felt the same way. That they were enjoying each other and would move on when the flame burnt itself out.

“René,” she said softly. “I am not coming back. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but I never made you any promises. You are an attractive man and an exciting lover, but I don’t need you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. “Perhaps you have found someone else you think can replace me? Some silly young boy that worships you? You will soon get bored of that and then you will return.”

That really got her back up. “I’ve allowed you to have your say,” she said. “I believe we are done here. I want you to leave me alone.” She put her hand on the doorknob.

“Wait!” he said, “I’m sorry. You break my heart,” he dropped his head in defeat. “I will abide by your wishes.” He paused and looked up at her sorrowfully, “but, grant me one request, if you ever cared for me...”

She nodded slightly, allowing him to continue.

“The painting I began of you. I would very much like to finish it. I believe it will be my best work yet. Please, will you consent to return and sit for me? Just until I can complete it?”

She searched his face, trying to gauge the sincerity of his words and wondering if she could trust him. He’d behaved abominably, that was true, but she was partly to blame for allowing it. His work was all he had and she didn’t want to cause him any more pain.

“I am still sitting for Pierre Sarcelle,” she began. “My work with you could not disrupt that in any way. And I would expect to be compensated for my time.”

“I will humbly accept whatever conditions you require,” he said solicitously.

“Make no mistake,” she said. “This is work and work only. You will not touch me and you will not raise your voice to me, or I will leave, immediately and not return.”

He nodded.

“One last thing” she said. “I must approve of the pose, René.” She thought she knew which painting he wanted to finish. There was really only one that he’d made any real progress on, but she wasn’t going to put up with all the starting and stopping and repositioning. She didn’t want him touching her, it was too dangerous.

“Whatever you wish, mon amour.”

“I am not your love,” she insisted. “I will let you know when I have the time.”

With that she returned to the apartment, closing the door on him.

“What are you doing?” Vianne hissed. “I heard the whole thing. You cannot go back to him, not even to model!”

“I can, and I will,” Phryne said defiantly. “I am not going back to him, I am only sitting for him. I am not frightened of him.”

“Then you are a fool,” Vianne said.

Phryne was stung. “I want to end things with him on my own terms, Vianne, not having been run off in fear.”

Vianne sighed. “You puzzle me, Phryne. You are such an odd combination of worldly and naive. You are too quick to offer second chances. Some people are unworthy of them. René is such a person.”

“I am not going back to him,” she insisted. “He will never touch me again. It is just a job. Nothing more.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne resumes sitting for René and falls into some familiar traps, convinced she has things under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't up the rating from M for this chapter. There is a depiction of a consensual sexual encounter that is slightly more graphic, but I don't think rises to the level of an erotic rating. I still wanted to give fair warning.

She made him wait. Her sittings with Pierre were time consuming and she didn’t want to return to the days of running from one studio to the other. Besides, she was having too much fun going out with friends and wanted to keep some free time for herself.

She had gradually returned to Café Anatole some nights. It was a nice respite from the louder clubs and some of the people there had begun to feel like family. Late in the evening Henri would often come out from the kitchen and sit with her, Vianne and a few others.

Nobody told jokes like Henri and he seemed to have a million of them. One night, as they sat around the table listening to him and laughing until their sides hurt, René approached.

“Pull up a chair!” Henri boomed. Henri knew Phryne and René were no longer together, but he did not know any details. Vianne exchanged a glance with Phryne, but Phryne only waved a hand to indicate that it was all right. She didn’t want to make a fuss.

In the end, it turned out fine. René was cordial, even charming. Much like he’d been when she had first made his acquaintance. He didn’t make any bitter or sarcastic comments, veiled or otherwise, and by the end of the night, Phryne felt things had settled enough that she would be able to work with him again.

Before her first sitting with René she made a mental list of her requirements, the amount her would pay her, and the timing of breaks. She knew which painting he wanted to finish and happily it was one of the less offensive of the poses he’d tried. She was at least seated fairly comfortably, leaning back in an upholstered chair.

When she arrived he was very considerate, helping her out of her wrap and offering a cup of tea from a fresh pot. He’d even set up a screen in the corner of the room for her to disrobe behind, something he’d never offered before.

“You remember I only have two hours today,” she said immediately.

“I remember,” he said. “I won’t keep you longer.”

Despite the innumerable times he’d seen her body, she felt a shyness and reserve as she walked from behind the screen to take her place in the chair he’d set in front of the only window in the room. He said he liked the way the light slanted across her skin, making it glow.

“Do you remember the pose?” he asked politely. She did her best to position herself as she remembered it, her head back, her right leg slung over the arm of the chair. “Good,” he said, “and your hand, it was on your leg.”

She dropped her hand to her leg, just above her knee. “Like this?”

“Yes,” he replied politely, “That is perfect.”

He worked quietly and she began to relax and even enjoy it. Her pose for Pierre had not allowed her to see him as he worked, but in this pose, she was looking directly at René. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed watching him work. He had a lithe and graceful body and he moved with a smoothness that was very pleasing to watch. In the café his movements were large and showy, but here, in his own studio, he was quieter, more contemplative. And the way he looked at her, as though he wasn’t seeing her as Phryne, but as something larger and more important. He seemed inspired and she really hoped that this time he could achieve the result he sought and finally create his ‘brave new art.’

As promised, he didn’t complain when the two hours were up. Not for one moment had he been anything but professional.

“Phryne?” he said, as she headed for the door. She turned to face him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, turning to go.

“I am sorry, about how things ended between us,” he said.

“Let’s not do this again, René. It’s in the past.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know that, but, I do hope we can be friends. Can we be friends, Phryne?”

She let his question hang in the air, watching his face for any sign of deception, but saw none.

“I’d like that,” she said, finally. She promised to give him more time when she came to sit for him next.

That session began much the same as the earlier one. He was in an amiable mood and greeted her warmly with kisses to both cheeks. She felt at ease with him. After all, they had known each other very intimately and there had been some wonderfully fun times.

She went behind the screen to change.

“It is odd, isn’t it?’ he said.

“What’s odd?” she called back.

“You changing behind that screen. I know every inch of your body, and in a minute you’ll be sitting naked in that chair for me. And, I’ve never known you to be shy. In fact, if I recall, the first time I laid eyes on you, you didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.”

“Things are different now. We are not together.”

“But, we are friends now, are we not? You need not fear me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“Then why do you hide?”

She stepped out from behind the screen and turned in a circle for him, her arms outstretched.

“There,” she said defiantly, a smug smile on her face. “Are you happy?”

“Very,” he laughed. “I said it from the beginning. You have a beautiful body.”

She gave him a scolding look.

“What is wrong?” he said smiling, “I can still appreciate you, can’t I?”

“Let’s just get to work,” she said, but she was pleased that they’d gotten to the point where they could joke with each other again.

She took her pose in the chair as she remembered it. He looked back and forth from her to the painting a few times.

“That is good, but, the leg on the chair, can you move it back a little. Your legs must be spread a bit further apart.”

She did as he asked and saw a quick flicker of lust in his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Your hand, please, a little higher on your thigh.”

She slid it a fraction higher.

“No, even higher please. Like so.” He approached her and covered her hand with his. His eyes locked on to hers as he slid their hands up along her thigh several more inches. She swallowed a surge of desire. “Better.” he said, smiling.

He returned to the canvas and continued working quietly for nearly an hour, looking from her to the canvas and back. Each time his eyes lighted on her, she’d note the way they moved from her head to her toes, at times lingering between her thighs. It was as though he was touching her with his gaze. Caressing every inch of her, and her body began to respond against the will of her mind. She fought back, thinking of anything else to not be effected by the memory of the things she knew he could do to her, the way he could make her feel.

“It is wrong,” he suddenly said. She snapped to attention, listening carefully, but hearing only frustration in his tone, no anger. “Something is not the same as before.”

“I’m in the same position as last time,” she insisted.

“True. The same as last time, but not as before,” he said. “Something is missing.”

He put his brush down and looked at her critically, then back at his canvas, for several long moments.

“I know what it is, ma cherie,” he purred, approaching her and kneeling in front of the chair. “Before, you were wanton, your eyes glowing with desire and need.” He wrapped a hand around her ankle running it slowly up her calf.

“Don’t,” she said, unconvincingly.

“No?” he said, letting his hand rest on her knee, his thumb caressing in small circles. “Are you sure about that?”

“René,” she cautioned, stilling his hand.

“But, I can see it,” he said, smiling lasciviously, “the need behind your eyes. You say no, but your body remembers and defies you.” He held his hand still, but didn’t remove it from her leg. He had a look in his eyes that stirred a memory. It was the way he’d looked at her that first evening, in Pierre’s studio. As hard as she fought against it, it brought the same rush of heat, and she could feel heart rate increasing.

“There is no shame in desire,” he said. “I speak not of love, my black cat. I think I understand you better now. You are a passionate, sensual woman. That is what I want to paint. I want an image that conveys barely contained yearning. A lust that is primal.”

He raised the back of his hand to her cheek, drawing it delicately down along her jaw and neck, then lower, brushing with a whisper soft touch along the swell of her breast. His other hand lay hot and heavy on her thigh. She dropped her head back, her lips parting as her mouth fell open with the tug of breath she pulled into her lungs.

“There,” he said, standing and returning to the canvas. “That is what I remember.”

She watched him then, with hungry eyes, as he resumed his work. Each time he looked at her, his gaze lingered longer, as though he couldn’t pull his eyes from her.

“Your hand. A little higher on your thigh, please,” he said a short time later, in a voice that sounded rough and slightly strangled.

She did as he asked, sliding her hand incredibly slowly along her thigh as he watched, waiting for him to tell her where to stop. His eyes darkened and she saw the tell-tale signs of an erection straining against his trousers.

‘Here?” she asked when her hand was halfway between her knee and the dark mound of hair at her center. Her other hand was gripping the edge of the armrest with an iron clad hold. Her whole body hummed with excitement and anticipation.

“Higher,” he whispered, his own hand reaching down now to massage the bulge in his trousers.

She smiled and brought her hand all the way to her center, cupping her mound and curling her fingers.

“Is this what you want?” she said, spreading her legs to give him a better view and letting one finger slip inside.

He returned to her side with determined speed. Dropped to his knees, and pushed her hand away, pulling her hips toward him until she slumped in the chair, before diving between her legs.

“Yes,” he said, the rush of hot air hitting her and causing her to rock her pelvis forward. “How I’ve missed you,” he said.

She barely heard his words, her body sparking, her thoughts a blur.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t possibly be serious!” Vianne said. “What are you thinking going back to that man?”

“I haven’t gone back to him,” Phryne insisted. “I’m not moving back in. I’ve no intention of a relationship. Why shouldn’t I enjoy his skill?”

“And he knows this? That he is nothing more to you than a means of release?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that!” Phryne said. “I do care for René, after all. But yes, he knows it is a physical thing. It is the same for him.”

They had stopped short of intercourse, Phryne had not prepared for that and wasn’t about to take any chances, but, they’d thoroughly enjoyed each other none the less.

Afterwards, they’d talked. Phryne realized it would have been better to talk first, but the encounter had been so erotically charged and exciting she hadn’t wanted to stop.

“We’ve agreed this is to be nothing more than the occasional shag,” she told Vianne. “It has always been this way between us, especially when he is painting me. We are both passionate people with substantial sexual needs. If we can satisfy each other at times, where is the harm in that?”

“You are playing with fire,” Vianne warned. “There are other ways. Other men, Phryne. A city full of them! Remember just the other day? Our two heroes? Would either of them not be a more than suitable replacement for René?”

“A missed opportunity there, I’ll agree,” she said, recalling the handsome soldier and that stomach dropping feeling, “but don’t forget what preceded that. Those other men would have done us real harm, Vianne. Yes, there are many men, most, I’m sure wonderful, but there are also those carrying a danger not readily seen. René is a known entity. I know what he is and I know how to handle him,” she said.

She’d had plenty of experience reading her father’s moods and had learned how to placate. It had been a hard earned skill, honed after years of ignoring the signs and defying her father only to find herself locked in a cupboard, cold, hungry and humiliated. She was convinced she could play René to her benefit. She could enjoy the excitement of their sexual encounters and move on when she got bored.

She sat for him a few more times that week, in between her sittings with Pierre. Each sitting ended with vigorous romps in bed that left her quite satisfied. After one especially rousing session, she rose from the bed to dress. He grabbed her wrist and she let him pull her back down and roll her underneath him.

“You can’t leave now,” he said, grinding against her as he nudged her knees apart. “I am not through with you.”

“I have to go,” she said, laughing. “I’m sitting for Pierre tonight.”

“Sarcelle can wait,” he said, dipping his head and latching his mouth on to her neck, sucking hard. She pushed him back.

“Don’t do that!” she said. “You’ll leave a mark!”

“That’s the idea,” he said, leaning in again.

“No!” she pushed him off her and rolled away, rising from the bed. He huffed in frustration.

“Why must you sit for him the same days as for me? You get me all wound up and then you leave me, it has to stop.”

“You know the way this is,” she said, pulling on her clothes. “It is what we agreed upon.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t want you sitting for Pierre anymore.”

His tone was light enough, but she wondered if getting involved with him again had been a mistake. He was looking at her now and she could tell he was waiting for her to start a fight. She chose instead to cajole him and make her exit as quickly as she could. She’d promised Pierre she wouldn’t be late. She’d deal with this later.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning over the bed and giving him a kiss. “I promised Pierre. I can’t break my word. Perhaps I can return later?”

He huffed in annoyance. “Be sure you do. And don’t make it too late.”

She finished dressing quickly under his watchful eye. As she left he called after her, “I’ll expect you back soon, and tell Sarcelle you are finished with him. He is taking up too much of your time.”

She looked back to see him laying spread eagle on the bed, his eye closed, his hands folded behind his head, reclined like a king against the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably the hardest chapter for me to write. I wanted to make it believable that she would fall back in with René even after the earlier encounter that left her shaken. I don't want to portray her as weak, or under his spell, but rather a little young and naive and a bit too sure of her ability to control the situation. I hope it is believable.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head with René. Phryne finally understands his true nature and resolves to be rid of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter so I'm posting only one today. I hope to post the final chapter tomorrow.

“Come in, my Phryne!” Pierre said. “I am so glad you are here, look.” He took her shoulders, squaring her in front of the easel. “She is almost complete”

It was magnificent. It had all the beauty of the portrait of Veronique, but the work with Phryne had something different. Something that seemed to indicate a slight shift in Pierre’s technique. Instead of the muted, dreamlike quality of his earlier work, this painting felt more solid, somehow.

His portrayal of the girl was pleasing, capturing the curves of her body in their natural beauty, but where his portrait of Veronique used warm muted tones of red and yellow, the portrait of Phryne was cooler, with shades of blue dominating, making her skin glow like white marble. The background was different too. It consisted of two precise color blocks. A sea-foam green that picked up on the blues of the girls skin and a cool yellow, complementing the green, and adding a juxtaposition that was unexpected and exciting.

“You like it?” Pierre asked.

“It’s beautiful,” she said sincerely. “And the girl, she is magnificent, no?” she added cheekily.

“The girl?” Pierre said, shaking his head. “No, Phryne. That is no girl. That is a woman.”

She looked back at the painting and saw it. A woman. A woman that needed to take charge of her own life and stop floating from one thing to the next in an attempt to distance herself from her family and life at home.

She’d found untapped reserves of strength during the war. They’d kept her going, allowing her to make it though alive and to be strong for the ones that didn’t. She thought she’d grown up then, yet she’d drifted blindly into this affair with René, and instead of walking away from his ill temper and unreasonable demands, she’d tiptoed around them, appeasing him to keep the peace. Just as her mother had always done with her father.

She settled into her pose, but found she was restless. Her mind kept returning to those last minutes with René. She replayed the scene in her mind, him pulling her back into bed telling her he wasn’t done with her, then the comments about her work with Pierre. Something else bothered her too. That moment when she’d pushed him away complaining that his aggressive attentions to her neck would leave a mark, and his reply.

 _‘That’s the idea,’_ he’d said.

It had sounded at the time like an offhand remark. In fact everything he did might seem innocuous, but putting it all together sent a chill down her spine.

This was how it had all started before. He was charming, considerate, attentive and so fantastically generous in bed. Then, little by little he worked to control her. Finding ways to keep her from going out at night with her friends, and sitting for Pierre, or other artists. Then there was the marking. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d left a love bite somewhere on her body.

She’d usually been able to hide them with make up or clothing. She’d complained to him that they interfered with her modeling, but he always claimed it had been unintentional. She doubted that now, very much. Had he managed to mark her today, it would have been in a spot that Pierre would have been sure to see and she was fairly certain that was exactly what René had in mind.

It also occurred to her now that René had never mentioned the mark on her arm left from that cigarette burn. It had faded some, but it wasn’t possible that he’d not noticed it in all the hours she’d spent posing naked for him and the additional hours in bed. Pierre had noticed it and asked about it straight away.

With a sinking feeling in her gut, she knew for certain now that it was René that had burned her in the café. She’d been ignoring him and giving her attention to another man, and he’d gone out of his way to somehow, some way, mark her still as his. And he’d chosen what he must have known would be a painful way to do it. If he thought nothing of hurting her that way, what else was he capable of? She felt herself begin to shiver.

“Are you cold, Phryne?” Pierre asked. "Shall I add some fuel to the fire?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You seem distracted. I know you are also sitting for René again. Perhaps you are working too hard. Would you like to take tonight off?”

“No, no,” she said. “You’ve been so patient with me and I know you want to complete the painting. I’m fine, truly I am.”

She wasn’t fine. Her mind was racing. How had she gotten mixed up with this kind of man? Abusive, manipulative men were all too common where she grew up and she knew they could be charm itself when they wanted to be. Like her father. She really should have seen this sooner. For a moment, she thought she might be sick.

Veronique entered the room and went to stand behind Pierre, watching him work with a critical eye.

“It is really quite beautiful,” she said. “It captures her boldness, her strength.”

Hearing that they thought she was strong only made Phryne feel more ashamed. She resolved to live up to their expectations. She _was_ bold and she was strong. She would end things with René once and for all.

He was expecting her to return tonight. She had no intention of doing that, but the thought made her nervous. He would be very angry. She lay on the coach fighting the urge to fidget.

“Arch your neck, if you please,” she heard Pierre ask. She sighed and arched back against the arm behind her head. A sound from the doorway caught her attention and she shifted, her body tensing as she saw René enter the room.

“Let’s go,” he demanded.

“I told you I was working tonight,” Phryne said, trying to hide the panic in her voice. She could immediately tell he’d been drinking.

“And I told you no more,” René barked, “ _C’est finis!_ ”

“Rene! Are you mad?” Pierre cried.

“René, please, no trouble,” Phryne pleaded, “I’m coming.” She hated her submissive tone, but she was afraid he might do damage to Pierre’s studio, or even hurt Pierre. It would be better to go with him now and get him away from here. He was her problem to deal with.

Apparently she wasn’t moving fast enough for him. René crossed the room and grabbed her, gripping her chin and turning her face to his. She could smell the liquor on his breath. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Veronique and Pierre exchange worried looks.

“You are the only one who understands me, ma chat noir.” Like his touch, the kiss that followed was anything but gentle and she was reminded of a similar encounter that had ended with her retching into the sink and leaving him for what should have been the last time. He looked in her eyes. He seemed pleased by the fear she knew he saw there. He turned and walked out, confident she’d follow. She picked up her robe from the floor and looked up in shame at Pierre and Veronique.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I will deal with this and return. I promise.”

“Don’t go after him,” Veronique said, “Let him cool off.”

“No,” she said. “He’ll only return more angry. Let me go to him and calm him down. I’ll come back.”

“Go,” Pierre said gently, “You need not return tonight, ma chérie. We are nearly done. We can continue tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Pierre,” she said, taking his hand and kissing it. “You have been, both of you, such good friends to me.”

She hurried then to dress and went outside where René leaned against the wall, calmly smoking a cigarette. The sight of him standing there, so sure she would come to him, caused something inside to snap. She seethed with anger and strode toward him, stopping in front of him and placing her hands firmly on her hips, her body shaking with fury.

“How dare you do that! And in front of Pierre and Veronique! We had an arrangement and this is not part of it. I’m through with this René. I am through with you!"

She turned to walk away from him but he followed, grabbing her arm, throwing her up against the wall and pressing her to it.

“You are _Mine,_ ” he hissed. “You understand? Mine. Not Sarcelle’s. Or anybody’s.”

The rage in his eyes, the tension in his body, told her that this man would not hesitate to hurt her. Possibly even kill her, and for the first time, she was truly afraid for her very life. She froze, trembling and unsure of what to do. Her instincts told her to stay still, and not provoke him further.

“Mine,” he said again, taking her face in his hands and kissing her. She let him.

“Body...”

He kissed her again, pulling at her dress and tearing it open.

“Mind...”

More kisses, to her face, jaw and neck. She fought the panic rising in her, trying to stay still until she could figure out how to escape him.

“and soul.”

He pulled back to look at her. She tried to arrange her expression to hide her loathing. If she could convince him she was still under his spell, she could find a way out, she was sure.

He turned away and she pulled herself off the wall. Suddenly he spun and brought the back of his hand violently across her face. The force of the blow sent her slamming back hard against the brick wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. It came as a shock. It probably shouldn’t have, but it did. Her hand shook as she brought it to her lip. She could taste blood from where he’d split it.

She had felt the sting of the switch by her father’s hand, her bottom sometimes so sore she couldn’t sit for two days. She’d felt his wrath, his cruel words and his confining punishment, but never this. Never the back of his hand like that, and never such blinding rage. Her own angry began to boil up inside her.

René had turned away again, and she almost wished he would look back at her. That he would look back and see the righteous fury in her eyes. In that moment, she knew she could kill him. She wanted to chase him down, leap upon his back and scratch his eyes out. Black cat, he called her. She’d show him her claws.

But that would be reckless, and she was rapidly become far too savvy for that. She moved quickly, René, had not looked back, expecting her to follow him. Instead, she turned toward the back entrance of Café Anatole.

She made her way into the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw Henri at the sink. There was safety in numbers, and Henri, with his rather spectacular size, counted for considerably more than one. She crossed to him, calling his name. He turned and his smile of welcome changed immediately to concern. He leaned forward, shutting off the tap with his stump of an elbow, and grabbing a towel with his good hand.

“Phryne!” he exclaimed, taking in the blood, her torn dress and mussed hair. “Who has done this? This is unacceptable! The streets are not safe. We must call the police.”

“No. No police,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. She was surprised by how calm she was, she’d have thought she’d still be shaking. “Henri, I need your help.”

A light seemed to dawn on his face and his expression of frantic concern turned sour. “René?” he asked. She nodded. “Connard!” he spat. “Where is he?”

“I expect he will be here any moment,” she said, “once he realizes I’m not following. I don’t want to see him. Can you hide me and tell him you’ve not seen me?”

“I will tear him limb from limb,” he said.

“No, you cannot let on that you’ve seen me. This is not your quarrel. Please, we must move, he will be here any minute.”

“But, Phryne...”

“Please, Henri.”

He placed his hand gently under her chin, lifting her face and examining the bruise blooming on her cheek and the split lip.

“Come with me.”

He led her up the back stairs into his small room at the top of the landing.

“He won’t find you here. If he comes, I will be in the kitchen to allay suspicion. I will return as soon as I can with some ice for your lip.”

“Thank you, Henri,” she said, giving his large hand an affectionate squeeze.

After he’d gone she went to the sink and looked at her face in the mirror. It could’ve been worse. She was about to turn on the tap to rinse the blood from her mouth when she heard raised voices below. She crept to the door, opening it a crack. René’s angry tones carried up the stairs.

“I know she is here. What have you done with her?”

“Calm yourself, mon ami,” Henri said. “I told you, I have not seen her, and given your attitude, I’m not sure I’d tell you if I had!”

“You would do best not to concern yourself in business that is not yours,” René threatened.

“It is hard to stay out of it, when you force your way into my kitchen, shouting at me of things I know not,” Henri said with a sneering laugh. “You make it everyone’s business with your ridiculous rantings.”

“What is going on here?” Anatole had come from the front room, drawn by the shouting.

“René here has lost his little bird,” Henri joked. “Pretty Phryne has flown the coop and he thinks we are hiding her here.”

Phryne wished Henri would resist mocking René. It would only make him angrier, but part of her had to admit she was enjoying it.

“What?” Anatole said. “Get a hold of yourself man. You are positively mad. Mademoiselle Phryne is not here. I’ve not seen her all night. Come, have a glass of wine, relax. Vianne is out front. Perhaps she will know where Phryne has gone.”

“Take your hands off me,” René bellowed. There was a scuffle and then a door slammed closed.

“What was that all about?” Anatole asked.

“Who knows,” replied Henri. “Artists,” he added knowingly, as if that explained it all.

Phryne breathed a sigh of relief. It was a stroke of good luck that Vianne was at the café tonight. She had feared that if René could not find her here, his next stop would be Vianne’s, and she wouldn’t put it passed him to force his way into her friend’s home.

A few minutes later she heard Henri on the stairs. He came in just as she’d finished cleaning her face and doing what she could to pull together the torn bodice of her dress. Without a word, Henri handed her a towel filled with ice shavings and she pressed it gingerly to her swollen lip.

“Sit down,” Henri said.

There were only two places to sit in the room. The bed and a small wooden chair. Phryne moved immediately to the chair, leaving Henri the bed so she’d be spared the ridiculous image of his massive frame, squatting on the spindly little perch.

“Thank you,” she said, “You were fantastic down there.”

“You heard?”

“It was hard not to.”

“What will you do?” he said. “He may cool down, but you should not return. Tell me you will not return to him.”

“Never,” she said, and this time, she knew she meant it. “I think it is coming time for me to leave Paris,” she said reluctantly, “but, I will not be run out of town. I will stay until Pierre has finished his work. I owe him that. I will leave when I am ready to, not because of him.”

“I appreciate your tenacity, but, I’ve never seen him so crazed. You are not safe.”

“I know. And I can’t go back to Vianne’s. He will look for me there and if he thinks she is hiding me, well...” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“You will stay here,” he said. “Well, not _here_ ,” he corrected. “There is a room at the end of the hall that Anatole keeps ready for when his sister comes to stay. I will speak to him. I’m sure he will let you use it, and you will be close, where I can keep an eye out for you.”

“That is generous, Henri, but I don’t want to cause trouble between you and René. I know he is your friend.”

“A man who can do this is no friend of mine. I still think you should go to the police," he said.

"What would they do? Nothing," she said, she knew that from experience. "I will take care of this myself."

"As you wish. But, for at least tonight, this is the best place for you. René will not want to relinquish his stage in the café by causing a scene here. He needs his adoring audience, and he will not risk losing his pride in front of the other artists.”

Phryne stood, still feeling restless and anxious.

“I must go warn Vianne. He will not stop looking for me and I can’t let him hurt her.”

Henri stood and placed his hand on her shoulder to still her.

“I will speak to her. I will warn her that it will be best to stay away from her apartment tonight. Tomorrow, we will collect your things and bring them here. Worry no more tonight.”

“But, I don’t want to make trouble for you all, you shouldn’t...”

He cut her off. “You don’t need to do this all yourself. You have friends here who care for you. Please, let us help you.”

Phryne finally felt herself relax. She wasn’t alone. He had a plan, at least for tonight, and she thought it a good one. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. He encircled her waist with his one good arm, chuckling softly.

“It’s all right, mon chou. All will be well. I will go speak to Anatole now. We will get you settled. You need to sleep.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne decides to leave Paris, but not without taking care of a few things first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only suppose to be 10 chapters and I thought I had it all complete before I began posting anything, but it kind of grew while editing. I've split this last chapter in two. I'll post the final chapter and epilogue tomorrow.

The next morning, before the café opened, Henri accompanied Phryne to Vianne’s to collect her things. Vianne returned home while they were there, having found a suitable alternative to her own bed the previous night.

Phryne felt so ashamed. Vianne had warned her and she’d ignored her friend’s advice time and again. And now, because of her hubris, her mistaken belief that she could control René and manage his temper, she’d put all her friends in a difficult position.

“I’m so sorry, Vianne,” she said, her head bent, unable to meet Vianne’s eyes. “You tried to tell me.

“Yes, I had a bad feeling about him,” she said, “But even I would not have expected such brutality.”

“He will come looking for me,” Phryne said. “I will be staying above Café Anatole. If he threatens you, tell him where to find me. I don’t expect you to risk harm on my account. I got myself into this. He is my problem to deal with.”

“What kind of friend do you take me for?” Vianne bristled, obviously affronted. “Do you think I would point that brute in your direction and wash my hands of you? I’m not afraid of René Dubois.”

“I think, perhaps, you should be,” Phryne said, touched by her friend’s loyalty. “The rage I saw in his eyes was immense. Please, do not provoke him. For my sake? It would destroy me if he hurt you because of me.”

“I won’t help him find you,” Vianne said defiantly.

“Then, I will have to let him know myself where to find me,” Phryne said. Both Vianne and Henri began to object.

“I’ll be careful,” Phryne said. “Henri, you said yourself he will not risk his reputation at the café. I think you are right about that. Besides, he’s always been able to persuade me to return to him. I’ll let him think this time is no different. I won’t do anything to further antagonize him. I'm not going back to him but I won't hide. Eventually, he will see the futility, accept that I’ve left him, and move on.”

She said this to placate her friends. She knew he would not move on and that he was a dangerous man. She’d saved enough money to get her out of Paris quickly, but it broke her heart. She’d found friends here. She’d found a sort of family that she’d began to feel a part of. To have to tear herself from them was wrenching. 

After settling her things into the little room above the café, she took a moment to sit and plan her next move. There were a few things she needed to do before she could leave town. 

First, she took stock of her face. The lip didn’t look that bad, last night’s icing having prevented any serious swelling. The bruises she could cover with make-up. She would return to finish the sitting for Pierre and hope the marks were not too noticeable.

On the way, she stopped at a small pawn shop, studying the items behind the counter before selecting a thin, stiletto style dagger with a pearl handle. She didn’t intend to face René again unarmed, and it would fit nicely into the top of her stocking. 

For now, she slipped it into her bag. Just having it there made her feel more confident as she made her way to Pierre’s studio. She was on alert, half expecting René to be lurking in the shadows, waiting for her.

She thought Pierre would be angry with her for having walked out on their session the night before, but when she arrived he only expressed concern. When he saw her lip, he locked the studio door. His kindness almost made her weep, but she didn’t want to make a mess of her carefully applied makeup.

“I don’t understand what has come over René,” Pierre said. “He is behaving intolerably. Would you like me to speak to him?”

She knew Pierre still didn’t know the half of it, and she wanted to keep it that way. There was no reason to make all of René’s friends turn against him.

“No, Pierre, but thank you. I am through with René. There is nothing further to be said about that. I just want to help you finish your work. You’ve been far too patient with me.”

“Ah, but it has been worth it,” he smiled. “I believe this may be my best work yet! I feel it may lead me in a whole new direction. It is very exciting.”

“I’m glad,” Phryne said, kissing him fondly on the cheek before taking up her pose on the couch. “I suppose there is no way I can persuade you to part with it?” she asked. She would like to take it with her when she left. As a reminder.

“No,” he said, “I am sorry, but this one, I will keep for myself.”

Several hours later, he turned to her and said. “C’est finis. Come see.”

She pulled on the robe and went to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders. Her heart ached to look at the finished piece. She hadn’t told Pierre she was planning to leave and she knew it was likely to be a long time before she saw him or the painting again, if ever. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him so tightly he laughed with surprise.

“Thank you,” she said as the tears she’d been fighting slipped down her cheeks.

“De rein, my child, but it is I who should thank you,” he said patting her hand. “Merci, Phryne. Merci beaucoup. Tomorrow night, you will join us at Café Anatole for the unveiling. Yes?”

“Yes,” she said. She wanted to be there, but was not at all sure that would be possible or wise.

She returned to the little room above the café wondering if it might not be best to simply pack her things and slip out of town. It felt cowardly. Why should she let him run her off? She would go when she chose to go, and if that meant another confrontation with him, so be it. She would end things once and for all. On her own terms.

Whatever else René was, she knew he was a vain man whose reputation was important to him. She was a bit surprised he’d shown his true colors in front of the Sarcelles, but she was fairly sure he’d keep himself in check in front of a larger audience. If she could face him in the café at night, in front of his adoring fans and fellow artists, she felt confident there would be little risk. Even so, she intended to have her new weapon snuggly tucked into her garter. A knock at the door startled her. It was only Henri.

“He knows you’re here,” he said simply. “I visited him this morning and warned him that if he laid a hand on you again he’d have me to answer to.”

“Henri,” she protested, “You needn’t have done that.” It galled her to be reliant on anyone for her protection, but it explained why René had not sought her at Pierre’s studio this morning, and for that she was grateful. Now that René knew where she was he would have no reason to harass her friends in search of her.

She spent the rest of that day and the next preparing for her departure. She didn’t tell anyone of her plans, she didn’t like long goodbyes. She quietly packed her things and visited a few of her favorite spots in the city. She went to the Tuileries Gardens and strolled along the Champs Elysées to the Arc De Triomphe, then down the avenue to the Trocadero to see the fountains and the Eiffel Tower. She crossed over the Seine and made her way through the streets, saying goodbye to this city she’d come to love, and then went back to the little room above the café.

She laid low after that, asking Henri to let her know when René arrived at the café. She knew his pride would not allow him to miss the unveiling of Pierre’s painting. As she expected, he made an appearance, arriving two hours after closing, once the late night crowd had time to gather. No doubt he wanted an audience to welcome and admire him. The unveiling was to take place at midnight.

She waited a long enough time for René to settle in at his easel and begin putting on his show. While waiting, she dressed carefully. She put on the black trousers she’d saved from one of her missions. Lyle had mocked her, saying it was ridiculous that anyone would mistake her for a boy. He hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of flying missions with her in the first place, but she’d been recommended by the Colonel and he had no choice but to go along. She was used to people underestimating her and took his ridicule in stride.

That first mission had been a rousing success. It had led to others, and by the time their last one rolled around, Lyle had come to respect her so much that he’d risked his own life to save hers. Their resulting stranding had turned into an adventure almost more thrilling than the missions.

Where had that girl gone, she wondered? The adventurous, confident girl who faced the world head on and knew her own worth. How had she let herself come to this? At least she’d found her head again before it was too late. She would rectify this tonight.

She finished dressing, putting on a plain black top and nondescript black jacket. The trousers, though made for a boy and ill fitting, were surprising comfortable and allowed a freedom of movement skirts did not. She decided she’d have some made to fit her. A pair of well cut trousers would come in handy. 

For her final touch, she added one more thing. A black beret she’d picked up on a shopping spree with Vianne. She set it jauntily atop her unruly mane and looked at herself critically in the mirror. The girl looking back at her from the mirror was not who she expected to see. Something was wrong.

She removed the cap from her head and loosely plaited her hair tying it off at the top and bottom with a ribbon. Then, she plucked a pair of scissors from her bag, and holding the braid firmly in her grip, she cut, just above that first ribbon. The now blunt ends of her hair swung free and she shook it loose, letting it fall around her face. 

It felt like a great weight had been lifted. It didn’t look half bad either. She thought it accentuated her cheekbones and looked sophisticated. It would need to be cleaned up a little, but for now, it would do. She put the braid in her bag, along with a small torch and the little dagger, since the trousers had rendered her garter hiding place ineffectual for tonight. She settled the beret over her newly bobbed hair, smiled at her reflection, and set off.

Phryne crept through the streets, keeping her head down, but always aware of her surroundings. When she reached René’s door, she paused, making sure all was quiet and then went to turn the knob and found it locked. “Dammit,” she swore under her breath. She hadn’t counted on that, but no worries. She pulled the little dagger from her bag.

She worked at the lock, wishing she’d picked up a pair of lock picks in the pawn shop, but luckily, it was not a complicated mechanism. She heard it release in no time, and slipped inside. 

She didn’t dare turn on a light, but with only one window the room was very dark. She lit her torch and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. It wasn’t hard to find what she was looking for, the painting still sat on its easel. She stared at it, her stomach recoiling slightly at the look in the eyes of the girl she saw there. 

That was not her. Even in its surrealist style, a look of enraptured thrall was obvious in the eyes of the silly child portrayed. She plunged the dagger through the canvas and dragged it from top to bottom slicing the image in half. For good measure she repeated the action many more times until it hung in shreds from the wood framing. 

Satisfied, she slipped from the apartment, her heart pounding in her chest. Not with fear, but with exhilaration. She moved quickly through the streets now, until she came to the embankment of the river. She walked up onto the bridge and looked out over the water, seeing the lights of the city reflected in its inky surface. She retrieved the plait of hair from her bag and tossed it over the edge, hearing its soft splash as it hit the surface of the water.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne confronts René for a final time.

When she came through the back door, Henri was there in the kitchen, with Vianne as well, pacing the floor.

“Where have you been?” Vianne cried, coming to her and pulling her into an embrace. “I looked for you upstairs. Your things were there, but you were not. We thought he’d done something to you,” she paused, gaping at Phryne. “What are you wearing?”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Phryne said, smiling at her friends astonished expression, “there was something I needed to take care of.” She pulled off the beret and ran a hand over her hair. Vianne gasped.

“Mon Dieu! What have you done!”

“Oh!” Phryne said, turning her head this way and that, making her hair swing around her face. “What do you think?”

Vianne took a long look. Henri, too.

“It suits you,” Henri said.

“It looks like it was done with a hedge clipper,” Vianne said, taking a few strands between her thumb and forefinger and holding them warily as though it were something nasty.

“Well then come and help me style it. I can’t attend the unveiling looking unkempt now, can I?” Phryne said.

“But he is here, you know. Do you truly intend to face him?” Vianne said.

“Why should I be the one to stay away. It is a portrait of me, after all. Come on. Help me dress.” She linked her arm though Vianne’s and pulled her up the stairs and into the small room at the end of the hall. The first thing she saw when she opened the door was a beautiful, blue chiffon dress hanging from a hook on the wall.

“Do not get too excited,” Vianne said, “It is only on loan.”

“Did you do this?” Phryne asked, stepping forward to get a closer look. “It’s incredible.”

“It is, isn’t it? My friend Madeleine has reopened her maison. She wanted me to wear one of her creations tonight at the unveiling, but I told her it would draw more attention if you were to wear it. You are the model after all,” Vianne said, smiling broadly. She stepped forward, lifting the dress from the wall and holding it in front of Phryne. “It will fit well, I think. You and I are not dissimilar in size. Here. Put it on.”

“I couldn’t!” Phryne said, reaching out to touch the dress. It was stunning. The layers of floaty chiffon slipped through her hands like water.

“Will you insult my friend by refusing her generosity?” Vianne scolded. “Very soon every woman in the world will want to wear a Vionnet. It is a great honor to be chosen to represent her.”

“I meant no insult!” Phryne cried. “It is just too incredible. You are amazing Vianne. How can I ever thank you?” She nearly cried right then, knowing she would be leaving soon and may never see her incredible friend again.

“Yes, I am amazing. You can thank me by showing that bastard what you are made of tonight. Now go. Put it on, or we will miss all the fun.”

Phryne shed her burglar’s attire and Vianne helped her into the gown. It was unlike anything she’d ever worn before. It was cut in a manner that caused the luxurious fabric to fall in a body-clinging manner, yet there was an elasticity to it that followed her curves without being constricting. The layered folds and draping were reminiscent of classic Greek design with a modern twist. Phryne felt like a goddess.

On top of it all, the layered skirt would perfectly hide her little dagger, while making it a fairly simple task to reach within the folds and find an opening allowing access to it. Phryne twirled, the yards of fabric swirling around her.

“Oh, you are a vision,” Vianne said, “but the hair.”

“It’s not that bad,” Phryne complained, looking at herself in the mirror.

“It has its charm,” Vianne acknowledged, “but sit. Let me make some small improvements.”

While the curling tongs heated, Vianne trimmed back some of the less even ends, then added waves with the heated tongs.

“There, more Marie Prevost, now, and less Jackie Coogan.” She set her hands on Phryne’s shoulders, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You are determined to face him then?” Vianne asked quietly. “Even now, when you know what he is capable of? Aren’t you at all afraid?”

“Of course I’m afraid,” she admitted, “but I have to do this. I’ve let him take things from me that I want back.”

“He has stolen from you as well?” Vianne said in alarm.

“Nothing of monetary value,” Phryne said. René had taken some of her spirit and independence. He’d damaged her trust in people, something that even the horrors of war had been unable to do. He’d made her question her own judgement. Restoring those things were of paramount importance to her. He’d sought to control her, but she would show him. Phryne Fisher lived under no man’s thumb.

The woman she saw in the mirror now pleased her. She felt strong and confident. She took the stiletto from her bag and secured it in her stocking before heading downstairs.

* * *

The night was rushing along in its usual spirited fashion. The crowd at the café was excitedly anticipating the unveiling of Sarcelle’s latest work. Phryne’s friends had stayed protectively at her side and she’d kept a watchful eye on René, but she was growing tired of waiting for what was inevitable.

When the crowd’s attention was drawn by the arrival of Pierre and Veronique, she slipped away to ‘powder her nose,’ anticipating he’d follow. Which was how she found herself face to face, and alone, in the corridor with René Dubois.

There was an underlying turbulence in his outwardly calm manner. She sensed the barely controlled violence in him. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and for a moment she regretted her impetuous decision to force this encounter. He stepped up to her, blocking her passage.

“You look lovely tonight,” he said.

“Get out of my way, René,” she said, surprised by how firm her voice sounded.

“So, my black cat, you have taken to hiding from me?” He said, not giving an inch.

“I’m not hiding. You’ve known where I could be found,” she said.

“Yes, but not from you. No. You send your newest toy to relay your messages. Tell me, how could that one-armed buffoon ever satisfy a woman with needs such as yours?”

“You underestimate Henri,” she sneered. “And you know nothing of my needs.”

“We both know that is not true,” he said. “I am the only one that understands your needs. I am the only one that could ever truly satisfy you. You will be back.”

“No,” she said. He heard the finality in her tone and for a moment she saw doubt in his eyes. It didn’t last long. He moved toward her with his usual arrogance, and she fought the urge to flee. He reached out and ran a hand down her arm. The contact made her skin crawl, but she stood firm, never taking her eyes off his.

“What do you want, René?” she said.

“You know what I want. It is what you want too,” he said. “You are, and will always be, mine. There can be no one else. You will learn it is foolish to try to deny this.”

“And who will teach me? You?”

“I do not like to hurt you,” he said, “believe me. Why would I wish to mar that lovely face? But, you force me with your disregard for my wishes and your disobedience. You are young still. You do not yet see the depths of my love for you. The depths of our love for each other.”

“Let me see if I understand you,” she said. “I am young, foolish, disobedient and apparently stupid, and when you brutalize me, it is out of love?”

“Still you do not understand,” he said, quietly. “Brutalize? Such an ugly word.”

She’d kept her eyes locked on his, holding his attention as her hand moved slowly along the folds in her gown to find an opening, and slip inside. She caught the slim hilt and deftly lifted the dagger from its hiding place. She grasped it firmly in her hand, but kept it at her side for now.

“I lost my temper, I’ll admit,” he said. “You bring out such passion in me. You kept me waiting. And you defy me. This,” he said, touching his hand to her hair and tsking. “Another example of your foolishness,” he said. “I would not need to raise my hand to you in anger if you would cease disobeying me.” He moved now to cup her face, drawing closer as if to kiss her.

She brought the small blade up between them, pressing the pointed tip to the center of his chest.

"Take your hands off me," she said.

He looked down in surprise and dropped his hands to his side. He looked up again, and he smiled.

“You are a ferocious one, aren’t you. I do love that in you, but reserve some of that heat for later, my chat noir.”

She pressed more firmly, poking a small hole in his clothing. She knew she'd struck flesh when he winced and stepped back. She followed, keeping the blade in contact with his body. The blade was a good one, and she knew that even that small prick had hurt.

“If you truly meant to harm me, you’d point that at my heart,” he said.

“But then I’d risk hitting bone,” she replied cooly. She dragged the blade lower, settling just below his ribcage. “This is a much better spot. Here I can press in and easily find vital organs. I spent the last few years seeing the bodies of men open before me, bleeding to death. I know how to use this and where to cut you for maximum pain. Or, I could just kill you. I could do it right now, in a manner so quick and efficient you wouldn’t even have time to make a sound. I might spoil this lovely gown, and that would be regrettable, but, needs must.”

She could see the wheels turning in his head. He was momentarily stunned, but it wouldn’t last long, and he was stronger than she. A rush of adrenaline had propelled her this far, but he was a dangerous man, and she wasn’t so reckless as to be unafraid. It was time to finish this and make her way back to the safety of the crowded room. She turned them slowly, keeping the blade pressed firmly in place until the entrance to the main room lay open behind her.

“You will never touch me again,” she said with finality. “I am a lot of things, René." She backed quickly away from him, keeping the blade at the ready. “But I belong to no one. I am not yours. _Never_ yours.”

She moved swiftly toward the main room and the welcome noise of the crowd, never taking her eyes off of René. At the end of the corridor, she stopped to slip the blade back into its hiding place, then turned to rejoin her friends. She felt a little light headed and her legs were like jelly, but she continued forward, gaining strength with each step.

“Ah! There she is!” Pierre called. “Phryne! Please join us, we are all waiting for you.”

She went to stand with him at the side of the easel. He greeted her with a kiss to each cheek.

“You are positively glowing,” he whispered in her ear. “Thank you for this. This work will make me famous. I am sure of it!” He turned to face the crowd and the room fell silent.

“My friends. Thank you for gathering here. I am most proud of this work and so happy to be able to share it with all of you. Allow me to present...” he pulled the cloth off the easel with a flourish, _“Woman with Peignoir.”_

 

**Epilogue**

* * *

 

The car was crowded but she made her way to an empty seat across from a man whose face was hidden behind a newspaper.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked politely.

The paper dropped to the man’s lap and she got a good look at him.

“No, please, sit,” he replied, smiling.

He was young, with auburn hair and an appealing smattering of freckles across his nose. Scottish, by the sound of his accent.

He rose from his seat and she noted a hitch in his movement that indicated an earlier injury, but he seemed to take little notice. “Can I help you with your bag?” He asked politely.

She nodded and let him take it from her and lift it onto the overhead rack, watching his muscles flex underneath his uniform jacket and appreciating the trim waist and firm derrière revealed as it rode up slightly. He retook his seat across from her and the train lurched forward.

“Where are you headed?” he asked, congenially.

“South,” she said.

“That covers a lot of territory,” he laughed.

“Exactly!” she said cheerfully.

“An adventurous soul, then? A bit like me,” he smiled again. It was an open, inviting smile. Sweet and sincere. “I’m on my way to see some world outside of dirty trenches and hospitals before heading home. I don’t have any particular destination in mind, my ticket goes to Nice, but I might just get off somewhere else if the mood strikes me!”

He was cheerful and animated. Radiating a liveliness that was magnetic.

“How interesting,” she said. “I have no fixed destination in mind either.”

“Really?” he said, his eyebrow arching. “Maybe we’ll find our moods strike us both at the same time. I’m sure I wouldn’t mind the company.” He leaned forward and extended his hand.

She looked him up and down before extended her own hand in return. As they touched she felt a shudder of electricity jolt through her. She thought she just might choose to travel his way for a little while. They had three hours until the next stop. Time would tell.

“Tom MacCallan,” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “At your service. And who, may I ask, are you?”

 

 

the end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. A couple of final notes:
> 
> Madeleine Vionnet was a famous French fashion designer credited with the technique of cutting cloth on the bias to create the body conscious, flowing styles that became popular in the 1920’s. She originally opened her fashion house in 1914, only to close it two years later due to WWI. She spent the war years in Italy where she was inspired by classic Roman and Greek design. She returned to Paris and reopened her maison in 1919. (Vionnet Paris still exists.)
> 
> I played a little fast and loose with timelines in my reference to two silent movie stars. Marie Prevost was a Canadian born actress and would have been known by 1919 but, Jackie Coogan (Uncle Fester in the 1960‘s sitcom The Addams Family) while working in 1919, was probably not well known until 1921, when he starred in the Charlie Chaplin classic The Kid.


End file.
